Over the river and through the woods
by SheyRicci
Summary: Five hours from home; a straight, simple drive, right? It was supposed to be that simple. It should have been that simple. But Dean still wasn't feeling well, neither the traffic nor the weather were cooperative so Sam, tired of the constant delays, decided to get a room for the night.
1. Chapter 1

I'm baa-AA-cck!

This story can be read on its own, or for a better understanding of how Dean got his concussion, you might want to read, "Ow, that hurt"

Hot and humid here in Maryland, hope you're all enjoying your summer! Me, I'm eagerly anticipating the lovely, lovely, Fall!

* * *

The room was dark. It was always dark. Did he really expect anything else? He was so tired of opening his eyes and trying to make out objects and shapes in the dim light. Okay, sure there were no windows in the bunker but still, what? Power was out? They hadn't paid their electric bill? Did they even have an electric bill? Sam, the lazy prick, couldn't find a lantern or two?

Dean rolled over to his back and after a moment, when the room didn't spin, eased up to recline on his elbows. His memory wasn't good, was faulty and sporadic at best but experience had taught him to be cautious when waking to the unknown. So, so far, so good – woo hoot. Head off the mattress, room stationary, vision clear, nothing blurred – well as well as he could see anyway. Okay, good, that was good. Next step, sit up – easy, slowly, careful, not too fast, you dummy – woo-wee! Yes! Success! Upright, palms flat on the mattress, either side of his hips, supporting his weight, but he was sitting up! Okay, good, still good, hell, it was great! Party-hearty!

"Fah-King Great!" he moaned pitifully, disgusted with himself for being so happy over such a small achievement.

Stomach where it belonged, head still and staying straight, no bobbing or listing to one side, eyes focused, no bile in his throat, room stationary, no objects floating or flying….now, all he had to do was stand up. Huh, did he want to try standing up? Eh, um, erhm, well...no, not really and why did he need to, anyway? He didn't know, couldn't remember the reason - if there'd been a reason - so he didn't. Just like that, his hard-fought battle was forgotten and he plopped down onto his back, rolled to his side. He'd get up the next time he awoke. Maybe then it'd be daylight and he'd be able to see across the room to where he believed the door was.

"Cold." he stirred, hand flopping in search of a blanket. Yeah, the blankets were down by his feet and his hand grasped his pillow, the sheet beneath him and his own arm before he finally found the comforter and pulled it up to his shoulder. "N'all 'etter." he sighed contentedly, his cheek nuzzled against the pillow and he knew no more.

Sam, having bested his brother's impersonation of a flopping fish and guiding the comforter into his hand, quietly left the room.

The next time Dean woke up, he actually remembered waking up before, just had no idea how must time had passed. Hey, progress! Well, in his ability to retain memories anyway. He blinked, squinted, rubbed his eyes, huh, yeah, no, still dim. Okay, so maybe not that much time, then. Well shit. He took his time rolling over and sitting up – all was good. Oh, well no, not all. He needed to pee and…...he waggled his tongue with a grimace, nose wrinkling in distaste, sometime in the not too distant past, he'd swallowed swamp water.

No, he'd never tasted it before, but he had smelled it and hadn't it been proven that perceptions were altered – no – created by smell? Something like that. So, yeah, his dry tongue and slimy mouth were, no wait…aw fuck. It didn't matter - _this_ is what swamp water tasted like. _He knew it_! Moldy, mossy, dirty, fuzzy, slimy, brackish….no, no…..there wasn't salt in swamp water, was there? Sam would know, he knew everything about useless trivia. He paused, tongue hanging on his lower lip. Now, what made him think about Sam? He pulled his upper lip away from his gums with his thumb but the taste remained.

Shit. Right, the need to pee.

Turning slowly, he scooched his ass to the edge of the mattress and swung his feet to the floor but he didn't get up. No, he just sat there, dressed in a light blue V-neck t-shirt and boxer briefs, the sheet and blankets tangled across his lap. Eh, blue shirt? He looked down, squinted, pinched a fold of the offending fabric – _Sam's shirt_ – between his thumb and forefinger and plucked it away from his chest with another grimace of distaste. A sick feeling of dread curdled his belly and he used two fingers to lift the blanket and peek beneath. Aah, whew, yes indeed – and Thank God for it – his briefs were his own. Of course that begged the question, why was he wearing Sam's shirt?

Okay, yeah, sure. If he thought about it – and he didn't want to, and if he'd admit it – and he wouldn't_, _he didn't remember much about the last couple of days. Or maybe it was a week. Might be longer, he didn't remember, didn't know, didn't care. He yawned, jaw cracking with a wince. Ouch. His hand rose without conscious thought to cup his chin and massage his jaw.

Sleep. All he'd been doing was sleep. Other than his body's demands he satisfied its basic needs and functions, he hadn't gotten out of bed, of that, he was sure. Well, pretty sure, maybe. Well, at least he didn't remember doing anything else. Fuck, he didn't know, he didn't know anything. Another yawn, a twinge from his bladder and he pushed the blankets from his lap. He remembered being at a sink and Sam had raised holy hell when he'd caught Dean holding a razor. He hadn't really meant to shave. He frowned, had he? No, he wasn't _that_ stupid, hell he hadn't been able to see straight, stop his hand from shaking or stabilize his image in the mirror. He'd just…..just…..just what? Thought it was a toothbrush, maybe? But no, oh no; Sam had been all atwitter, hands waving, arms flapping, tongue wagging, hair flying, head bouncing. Really, talk about your over-reaction.

"Aww….hell." he muttered, shaking the memory loose, what did it matter anyway? "The fuck?" there was a sudden litany of voices in his head: his scalp said, 'hey, dude, you forget what shampoo is'? His hair spoke up and said, 'itch me'. His hands said, 'sure'. His fingers said, 'be glad to'. His arms said, 'What a dumb ass. You think after a week of lying idle we can hold ourselves over your head while you take your time scratching'?

He frowned, biting on his bottom lip, a week? Yeah, a week, dumbass, how's your mouth taste? Another glass of swamp water anyone? "Shuddup."

"Hey."

He blinked, dropped his hands to lie across his lap and raised his head, bracing for the onslaught of piercing pain to slice across the back of his skull. Huh, some pain, but not knee-dropping. 'Course, there really wasn't any light. The curtains were pulled and no lamp was lit. Not in the bedroom anyway. Uh, bedroom?

"Dean?"

"So, you are here." he cleared his throat, but his voice remained husky. Where was 'here' anyway? Hey, maybe he was home. "Aw, fuck man….what'd I do?"

"You with it?"

"Hell, I dunno."

"The light bother you?" Sam opened the bathroom door and dull light spilled forth. "Hey, you with me?"

"Ow." a dull throb began behind both ears, but again, no stomach-churning pain. "Why am I wearing your shirt?"

Sam laughed, caught the glare-of-death cast his way, choked on a giggle and guwaffed. Sure, a week spent in darkness, a week without a shower or any food other than cheese and peanut butter crackers, dry toast and plain oatmeal, a week drinking coke and room-temperature water, a week without noise or light or activity or excess movement and Dean's first question was why he wasn't wearing his own shirt? Classic Dean.

"Cause, you packed two and you ruined one and I had to cut the other one to get it off you."

"Huh." now that statement required some pondering but, not now….later. "Couldn't buy more?" he frowned, rubbing his forehead as his headache blossomed. Oh-oh, oh no, here they come, taunting, humiliating memories; eating – _being fed_ – in bed, Castiel's bumbling attempts to offer comfort and - gulp - care, Sam wrestling him into this shirt. He frowned. Cas had been there? Or was it here? Wherever he was, he sure as hell wasn't home.

"Buying another shirt involved leaving you alone to go to the store." Sam replied, arms crossed over his chest, all nonchalant with his shoulder against the door frame. "And I wasn't willing to do that."

"Cas was here." it was a statement, not a question. It'd been a rough couple of days and Dean might not remember where they were but some things he did remember. Like Cas.

"You still had a shirt when he was."

"Aah." another statement to ponder.

"How you feeling?"

"Tired." he attempted to evict his tongue from his mouth. "Dirty." and failed.

"Yeah, well, expect so." Sam crossed one ankle over the other, got comfy. "You're body needed time to heal and now it's time for it to rest."

Aanndd….yet another statement needing pondering.

"Couple days?" Dean ventured.

"A week."

"_A week!_ The fuck? No way." but oh. Oh-woe, oh-woe-is-me, oh-no. Way and Memory, partners in crime, began a march! He gulped, and boy, were they ever marching fast and furiously; on fast-forward, skittering across his no-longer-befuddled mind in high-def, brilliant color. In. Full. Living. Detail.

A fucking mini-movie starring Sam.

Sam standing next to the bed, Sam hanging over the bed, Sam sprawled in a chair next to the bed, Sam sitting on the bed next to him, Sam – yeee-God– _sleeping_ on the bed next to him: Sam holding a cup, a bowl, something small, square and orange, a spoon, always nudging his teeth: Sam's hands pawing at him with a wet cloth, a towel, a blanket. Sam helping him sit up, get up, walk, stagger, off his knees: Sam hovering over his shoulder, standing with him in the bathroom, both verbally and physically protesting when he was shoved out of the room and the bathroom door slammed in his face: Sam looking like a kicked dog when Dean refused his help or shook off his hand: Sam asking him – no, _begging _him – to drink, a straw between his fingers as he blathered on about dehydration and fluids: Sam talking softly, asking if he was comfy, if he was warm enough, was he cold, was the pillow cool and dry, did he want another one, did he need a blanket: Sam still talking softly, wanting Dean to tell him what year it was, who he was, who Dean was, what color his car was, who Bobby was, what state was the bunker in.

"Fuck me." he lowered his head, palms covering his face. "No way." he splayed his fingers on one hand and peeked out. Nope, Sam was still there. "Son-uva-bitch."

Instant replay rolled on.

Light made him nauseated, sitting up had made him nauseous, leading his stomach to rebellion. Sam, holding what was probably a trash can while Dean puked like Garth, who couldn't hold his liquor: Sam, holding his head when he didn't make the trash can: Sam, arms full of clean sheets, pushing Dean one way, rolling him the other, changing the bed: Sam, his hair blown seven ways to Sunday, unshaven with huge black circles under his eyes – that even in the dim light, were noticeable to the man with scrambled brains – slouched in the chair, tablet shielded in his lap to limit the light that escaped from the screen: Sam chewing on his lip, Sam wiping his eyes, Sam on the phone, then...Sam with washed and combed hair, clean-shaven but with bloodshot eyes talking face to face with Cas.

"No." Dean pushed to his feet, warded off Sam's offer of assistance and made his way the short distance across the room to the bathroom where he firmly shut the door, once again, in his brother's face. He hoped shutting the solid door would also shut the virtual one in his mind but he was sorely disappointed. Those f'ng memories followed him right into the bathroom and continued to flow: A+ for persistence.

Sam, patiently holding a white take-out cup while Dean took his time slurping a milkshake: Sam, talking nonsense, telling him stories, laughing over his confusion about Maggie – whoever the hell she was: Sam, threatening violence, culminating in the temporary loss of use of both arms, if he – Dean – ever set foot in the back poker room of a hick bar without Sam _ever_ again. Sam, explaining their next job as soon as Dean was of able-body and sound-mind, would be helping Cas to restore his lost grace, power and complete healing abilities.

"Aw, man." Dean sighed, reaching for his toothbrush but it wasn't there. "SAM! The hell's my toothbrush?"

Too late, he realized his mistake. He groaned in despair, kicking the wall under the vanity with his toe. Ow, dumbass, that hurt. He really needed to stop calling himself 'dumbass'. He didn't like it. Asking Sam a question, any question, would be taken as being granted permission to gain entrance to the bathroom. Dean looked at the knob, no lock. Of course not. Not that a flimsy interior door lock – or any lock – would keep out a determined, emotional 'little' brother.

"Right here." Sam beamed, happy now that he'd gained access to where he wanted to be; beside his brother. "Use this toothpaste. Need me to squeeze…..?"

"Saamm." Dean warned, snatching the newly unwrapped blue toothbrush from Sam's hand once the smart-ass stopped waving it all about. "Get out."

Sam bit back a frown. Waving the toothbrush around had been a test. A test Dean had failed. He'd grabbed for it repeatedly but hadn't once come close to touching it or Sam's hand. He brightened as his brain forced his thought process forward; once he'd held his hand still, Dean had had no problem taking the toothbrush from him. That was progress.

"Right, right, no, ok." Sam nodded, reaching around Dean to pick up a plastic cup from the vanity and remove the protective cellophane wrapper.

Dean glared at it, some distance memory tickling his picked-clean brain, something about, something…...he hadn't been able to open something. Something he'd wanted, too. Oh well, shrug it off and go on. He grunted, staring at the bare toothbrush in one hand, unopened tube of toothpaste in the other. Come on mind, catch up. You leave me standing here staring like I don't know what I'm holding and my teeth will be brushed for me: Don't. Do. That. To. Me.

"Here, just some mouthwash is all." Sam squeezed the top and opened the bottle of mouthwash – something Dean was pretty sure he had neither the strength nor the coordination to accomplish – and poured a splash into the plastic cup that he sat next to the sink. "You sure you got a handle on the toothpaste? Here, let me…."

"You can go now." Dean bit out.

"Yeah, okay, but." Sam hovered. "It's just…." pause. "This is the first time you've been up, you know, out of bed in days and….well, how you feeling?"

"Well enough to kick your ass you don't leave."

"Yeah?" Sam said hopefully, not moving. "Shall we try taking the towel off the light? See how you do?" he reached up.

That stumped Dean; he was currently stymied by a tube of toothpaste that didn't miraculously open upon his silent command and squirt the right amount of paste onto the toothbrush so he was quite sure he was in no condition to reason why towels were draped over the lights. Nevertheless, being Dean, he ignored the yelp of warning from Sam, lifted his head to look up, and promptly swayed. Arms came around his stomach from behind. Warm and strong, holding him steady when his knees shook, threatening to dump him to the floor.

"Maybe not." he muttered. "The fuck I'd do?" he dropped the toothbrush and held a palm to his forehead. "Shit, man. Ow!" his other hand splayed atop the vanity but the added support didn't stop him from shaking or his head from bobbing.

"Yeah, sorry." Sam said, wa-ayye to close to Dean's ear for comfort. "Should have warned you not to look directly into the light." he held tight despite Dean's half-hearted attempts to squirm free "You wanna sit?"

"Um." he shuffled one foot backwards. "Good…..idea." he gave up the fight and let his knees buckle. Had Sam not been holding him, he would have landed ass-heavy on the floor. But Sam _was _there, his arms strong and he deposited Dean safely on the side of the tub.

"Hey." Sam wet a washcloth with cold water and when Dean didn't take the hand-out, refolded it and laid in across the back of Dean's neck who kept his head down. "Been over a week."

"What?"

"Since your concussion. You probably don't remember right now, but you had two blows to the head within a couple of days. It knocked you off your feet. I mean literally, it knocked you on your ass." he paused. "And when you're feeling better, that's a story you're going to tell me." his tone promised force would be used if necessary. "Really Dean? Some toothless, no-necked beer-back who's all belly and no brawn gets the best of you?" he waited but when Dean didn't bite, he went on. "So, anyway, Cas said there was nothing he could do. There was no injury to heal, just a concussion. I know, I know, doesn't make a lot of sense. A concussion is an injury but….." Sam spread his arms helplessly. "It's Cas. You figure him out."

"What?" yeah, he really wasn't up to following or holding a detailed conversation.

"So, not ready for direct light yet." Sam commented, putting toothpaste on the brush and handing it to Dean. "Progress though, got up on your own."

"Go away."

Sam hesitated then decided it would be wise to obey. Not because he feared Dean's ability to do him harm, but because he feared Dean would try to wrestle him and end up hurting himself. "You need me…..." another glare of doom and death and Sam back-pedaled to the door. "Need me or need anything, just thump something, okay?" he waited, half way out the door. "Dean? Come on, I'm not leaving until you agree."

"Yeah, sure…..go." he waited. Sam waited. Silence stretched. Finally Sam nodded and closed the door behind him with a soft snick. Once he was alone, Dean blew his breath out and pulled the cloth from his neck to wipe his face. Concussion wow. How? Who had hit him and with what? He poked all eight fingers, toothbrush clenched between his teeth, all over his head, searching for lumps and bumps or stitches, hell even a sore spot. Nothing. Well shit, if he'd had such a bad, god-awful concussion, shouldn't there be, you know, stitches or staples or adhesive, hell, at least a bandage? He dropped his arms, elbows resting on his thighs; Sam had said it'd been a week, hadn't he?

"Dean?" Sam called through the door, knuckles rat-a-tat-tatting softly. "You need me?"

"Bugger off!"

Where the hell were all those damn memories now? Let's see…okay…..there'd been a bar, a card game, oooooh, right, a fight, a bumbling Barney Fife, aah, let's see, Mrs. Barney Fife, a doctor….oh boy, more than one doctor – right, the hospital and Granma, aka Maggie. No wonder Sam was clinging like self-stick saran wrap. Well, not much he could do about anything right now. Trying to think, and forcing himself to remember, made his head _really_ throb and he wondered if Sam would let him have some aspirin. Like he should have to ask! But he knew without looking, he'd find no pain-relievers anywhere in the bathroom. Sam wouldn't leave them within easy reach; nope, not dear ole Sammy, the damn sensitive, over-protective pain in the ass.

Focus Dean, can't be too hard to come up with a way to coax some aspirin out of Jolly Green who's lost in the valley of wallow and sorrow.

Right, okay, so, in a nutshell, he didn't know where he was, how he'd gotten there, how long he'd been there or when he could leave. Yup, he sure was doing Grreeatt! Obviously he was going to be all right, or he'd be in the hospital; Sam would have seen to that. Aah, well, he was too tired to care about doing anything other than washing up and going back to bed. He thumbed his eyelids closed; a drummer was dancing to the beat of a different drum inside his skull. What was the harm in taking something for a slight headache? Slight? Yeah, right, you keep telling yourself that.

There! Dean nodded, satisfied with his conclusion, all was well. _He was well. _Well, he was if he ignored his head.

Oh. He paused, yeah, there was one problem – The Great Wall of Sam. Admitting to a headache would turn Sam all Florence Nightingale and Dean just didn't feel up to being an obedient patient. He shoved to his feet, held to the vanity with one hand and succeeded in a passable brushing of his teeth. Didn't matter, nothing mattered. Sam was in charge and like it or not, Dean had to accept it. He rinsed his mouth with water, then mouthwash; much better, no fuzzy teeth, no foul taste, no slick tongue, gums all tingly. Now…..he eyed the tub. He wore two articles of clothing…..how hard would it be to remove them and take a shower?

Um, hello, arms and legs talking here. No shower without us and we ain't helping; FYI big guy, not going to happen unless you want Sam's help. Dean shuddered. Shower with his brother? Not while he still drew breath. Okay, so new plan, a bath. Oooh, with bubbles, lots of bubbles and something to drink, wheedle some aspirin and he was good to go!

"SAM!" he called. "We got any bubbles?!"


	2. Chapter 2

Yeah, I'm playing fast and loose with the 'mark' and poor Cas and his, uh, abilities, or lack of them.

* * *

Sam was sprawled on the sofa, limbs akimbo, enjoying his first cold beer in over a week – wouldn't do to have alcohol on his breath should he, you know, have to rush his brother to the hospital. His head was propped up by pillows, a bowl of blueberries rested on his stomach, and a book was balanced on his knee. Mmmmmm, oh God, the beer tasted sooooooooooo good. Aah! His socked foot, dangling off the arm, swung in beat to the music playing from the commercial on TV. Finally, finally, he could take a breath and relax. Dean was awake, coherent, walking on his own, if a bit weak, and currently splashing happily in a tub full of bubbles made from liquid body wash. He'd even brushed his teeth!

…..And what a TV it was, a flat screen with hi-def cable.

Each day had been a trial but each day Dean had gotten better, shown improvement. He'd slept a little less often, stayed awake a little bit longer, talked more, gained coordination, was less confused and more cognizant every time he woke up. Still, Sam never wanted to go through another week like the one that had just passed. He couldn't – he wouldn't. It'd either kill him or land him in a psych ward wearing a straightjacket while he bounced his head off the rubber wall in his padded cell.

The stress, the anxiety, the not knowing, the waiting, the praying, the doubt, the anger, the loneliness, the uncertainty of leaving Dean alone with Cas while going to see both doctors who had treated Dean, one at the clinic, the other at the ER. The argument with the hospital staff that had gotten him escorted from the grounds by security only after they had threatened to call the police, the demand for answers, the constant battle with Dean over accepting help and on and on and on, etcetera and so forth.

…...Wow, this sofa was sooooo comfortable.

No, just no. Not again, never again. Soon as Dean was hale and hearty, fit as a fiddle, right as rain, and eating apples to keep the doctor away, they were **so** going on a balls-to-the-wall quest to retrieve Cas's grace and restore it to its former glory of full and complete power. What good was having an angel – a guardian angel at that – if he couldn't make Dean all better? Assurances that everything would be all right were empty and not at all comforting when your brother couldn't sit up or roll over or grasp your hand!

…...And the room had high-speed free wi-fi.

Although Sam still had no idea how Maggie and Dean had ended up in the hotel they were at, they'd remained for the past week in the suite Maggie had booked even though she'd left the day after Sam arrived. It was above their usual grade of accommodations but comfort and convenience overrode expense and affordability. With the bedroom being separated by a wall, if not a door, Sam had been able to watch TV, use the laptop and leave on a light bright enough from which he could read. The kitchen was also a blessing; a large 'fridge and a full-size stove as well as a microwave allowed Sam to buy groceries and eat decent meals in the suite. If nothing else, Dean hadn't been overly bothered by strong smells.

…...Plenty of soft, fluffy towels, a never-ending supply of hot water, both in the bathroom and in the kitchen sink, clean sheets, pens and pads of paper at the desk, dimmable lights, central a/c and heat, no crappy unit under the window. No sirree, not this suite. Yup, he sure could get used to staying in hotels like this.

Not wanting to leave Dean alone, Sam had only gone out when Cas had been able to remain at the hotel - and that had been once. He'd gone to the hospital then the grocery store. Now though, maybe he could safely leave Dean alone and go to a store that sold clothing, then a Laundromat. They were okay money wise, and if needed, Sam knew where to get more. There was Bobby's salvage yard and if he had to, he could call Jody for a loan.

Sam finished the beer and set the bottle on the floor. Come Tuesday, he'd take Dean back to the hospital for another CT Scan, where hopefully they'd be given the all-clear to load up and head for home. A five hour plus drive home across the state of Nebraska with Dean riding shotgun – he shuddered. Well, maybe Dean would sleep.

Ha, Sam snorted, yeah right. His fingers scraped the bowl and came up empty. Damn, the berries were gone and he was still hungry. Sighing, he sat up, listening for sounds from the bathroom that were proof he'd raised an elder brother as an idiot but he heard nothing; neither a grunt nor a groan, not a thump or a bump, no cursing, no yelping, no humming, no singing, not even the sounds of splashing. Not yet alarmed, Sam got to his feet, threw the bottle into the recycle can, set the bowl in the sink and paused outside the partially opened bathroom door.

"Dean? You fall asleep?"

"What's wrong with my eyes?!" came the response. "How come it's so dark? I can't see shit in here."

"We've been over this Dean." Sam said patiently. "You're in the tub, how much light do you need anyway?"

"My head hurts." aah, so now, in addition to complaining, he wanted something. "Need some aspirin."

_Are you out of your frigging mind_? "No." Sam said firmly. _Uh, yeah, you dimwit, out of his mind is exactly what your brother is._ "You ready to get out?"

"Will you let me take something for my head?"

Sam frowned, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Dean rarely asked for anything. "Will you let me help you get out of the tub?" Sam countered.

"If I do, you'll let me have some aspirin?"

"Tylenol." Sam conceded reluctantly. Acetaminophen might not be good for the liver but it was better than aspirin for a head injury when bleeding remained a possibility.

"Okay." Dean agreed reluctantly. The way he saw it, letting Sam have his way was a small price to pay if it got him what he wanted. "Hey, how come there's a towel over the light in here?"

Sam rolled his eyes and ducked out of the room.

Once Dean was safely out of the tub, dried and dressed and back in bed, Tylenol swallowed, Sam cleaned up the mess his deliberately sloppy brother had made getting out of the tub, promised future retribution then pulled out the sofa-bed and laid down for a much deserved nap. Hell, what time was it anyway? Could be midnight and bedtime for all he knew. Didn't matter, Sam's body was demanding rest, his mind wanted sleep and he might was well succumb while Dean slept peacefully.

Today was the fifth day since Sam had arrived and the first that Dean had gotten up on his own. Oh sure, he'd crawled out of bed to seek the bathroom but he hadn't gotten up for any other reason and Sam had had to catch him, turn him around and guide to the bathroom more than once. Dean had mumbled about the bathroom moving, never being where it should be, that it hadn't been there last time, and when he came out, had to be caught, turned and guided back to the bed he'd just left. Each day, Sam had let in a little more light, turned up the radio a bit more, experimented with the flickering images on the TV and laptop. Each time, Dean tolerated a bit more than before. But it had been slow going. Agonizingly slow, with a time or two there being a step back. Sam had felt like crap every time he'd made Dean vomit or wince in misery or cover his head with his arms with a sound of pain.

Sam had read the hospital file until he'd memorized it and yet, he'd read it again and again, hoping, praying something would be different. Had searched diligently for any of the warning signs stipulated in the one document within the file that scared the crap out of him: Choking, gagging, trouble swallowing; failure to recognize Sam or cite his own name or the color and model of their car, things most familiar and dear to Dean; inability to grasp Sam's hand, inability to high-five or touch what body part Sam called out. He'd put Dean through various tests, including vision, reflexes and coordination; questioned him hourly, hounded him every time he got out of bed, scrutinized his movements, all but whipped out a ruler and measured his eyes, though now that he was able to think rationally, he had no idea what that would have proved.

He blew his breath out, rolled over and punched his pillow. His biggest fear had been Dean taking a turn for the worse, and Cas being either too far away or too weak to help. With his limited power, he couldn't bring back the dead. It'd been a hard decision; keeping Cas close by or letting him go but in the end, the need to restore his power and grace had been the priority Sam had agreed with.

He'd catch some sleep, and when he woke up, he'd take a shower, make a decent meal and return to his research both on the mark and Cas's grace.

***000***

"I'm hungry." Dean announced, joining Sam at the table where he plopped into a chair with no grace. "Make me something to eat."

"Soup? Scramble some eggs? I can make an omelet." Sam offered, collecting and closing the numerous books spread across the table. "You, uh….."

"Kind of soup?"

"Butternut squash, Cream of…" Dean's hand went up, the universal sign of, 'stop, right there'. "Chicken noodle." Sam ventured. Cream of anything and Dean were not on cordial terms. "How you doing?" he asked hesitatingly, waiting for the expected blow off. Prepared for the snark, the middle finger salute, to be made fun of, laughed at, put down and ridiculed. You know, the usual attitude and response from Dean whenever Sam offered to help him or do something for him.

"Chicken without rice?" he glanced around the suite, taking in the 'luxurious accommodations' with a smirk. "Where the hell are we?"

"What do you remember?" Sam asked after a moment, needing the time to recover from not receiving the expected reaction. Huh, okay, so no, Dean was not yet fully recovered from his concussion. Not if he were willing to sit at the table and allow Sam to make him something to eat.

"Nothing in any kind of order that makes sense."

Sam filled him in while he scrambled some eggs, made some toast and heated a can of chicken noodle soup. He puttered around the kitchen making the least amount of noise as possible but other than the occasional wince, Dean didn't seem bothered by the occasional clink or clang.

"The Impala's here though?" Dean asked. He hesitated then wearily picked up a fork, poked at the eggs and reached for the salt. "Ketchup?"

"Yeah, right outside." Sam found some take-out packets of mayonnaise, ketchup and hot sauce in a drawer and tossed them onto the table. He successfully kept a frown to a raised eyebrow, watching Dean hold the fork like it weighed five pounds. "Easy on the salt, dude."

Dean nodded. "All's good then." he set down the fork, fought with a package of ketchup, tried with his teeth then threw it at Sam. "Open this."

Yeah, see no, _all_ wasn't good. If Dean was _all_ better, he'd be demanding they leave, and go home or find a case but he wasn't. He was sitting quietly in a dim room eating ketchup-covered scrambled eggs with too much salt and Sam just didn't know what to make of that.

Dean didn't eat much but Sam didn't comment. He cleaned up while Dean finished drinking his orange juice without complaint; yeah, sure, nothing to worry about there – just another out-of-character action from Dean.

"We got anything going on?" Dean asked pulling the laptop around and lifting the top.

"You….Hey!" Sam yelped. "Don't do that!" he forced the lid down before Dean could clear the keyboard.

"What? Get your hands off it!" Dean swatted at his arm. "Geez, you researching a hunt?"

"No!" Sam picked the computer up and moved it over to the counter out of Dean's reach.

"What's going on Sam?" Dean's tone reflected a hint of anger. "You hiding something from me?"

"No, you dumbass." Sam retorted, emotions frayed. "I'm trying to protect you from being a drooling heap on the floor. You raise that screen and the page comes up bright and running a video, you'll be in a puddle of vomit."

Dean scowled, hot retort on his tongue but he remembered looking up at the light in the bathroom and held back the scathing comment. "Time is it? Hell, what day?"

"I don't think you're up to flickering screens yet." Sam said more gently. "Let's give it another day, okay?" he offered Dean a powered donut, his stomach doing a sick dance when the offer was rejected. "And it's Sunday, around noon."

"Whatever." Dean let it go. "When are we going home?"

"You have to go back to the doctor's on Tuesday, then we'll see."

"I have to what?" his ire pricked up again. "Since when do we do return visits to the hospital?"

"Since you were knocked stupid and got arrested. And oh, let's see, aah yeah, you shot a pillow – good shot by the way, though who the hell knows what you were actually aiming at – passed out in a parking lot, puked on my feet, cried like a little girl when the sun peeked through the window and hid under the blankets when the light was turned on and then…"

"Yeah, well, fuck you." Dean got up, held to the table until he gained his balance and turned in a circle, first to his right, then to his left. "No one asked you to come get me." finally deciding which direction his bed was, he let go of the table. Yeah, his grand departure would have gone so much better if he'd known where he was going and hadn't staggered like a drunken fool trying to get there. "Go buy me some shirts." he ordered grumpily. "I need clothes."

Maybe you didn't ask, Sam chortled silently, but Maggie sure did. "Hey." he followed Dean, hands stretched out to catch him should he fall. "How's your head feel? It hurt?" he didn't add that the last time Dean had gotten up, he'd complained of a headache and asked for aspirin. No sense giving him any ideas.

"Just a headache." he didn't ask for any aspirin and Sam didn't offer. "Go away."

Sam picked up the discarded pillows, fluffed and plumped them, then piled them by the headboard. "Go easy getting up next time." he advised. "You sit up too quickly and spin the room, your stomach will…"

"Sam?"

"Yeah, yeah, right, get out, go away, get lost, find something else to do, leave you alone, don't bother you, why am I still here, don't I have anything better to do, you don't need me, you don't want me around…..." he was still muttering, repeating every phrase Dean had apparently thrown at him over the last week or so, when he finally left the room.

"Finally, geesch." Dean lay on his back, hands folded and cupped under his head as he stared up at the ceiling. He wasn't about to admit it, but he was so weak from sitting at the table and walking back to bed that his leg muscles still shook and his right calf was cramped. He should be able to remember what all had happened, but he didn't. Trying only succeeded in leaving him frustrated and in pain. And sleep? Yeah, it wasn't coming anytime soon. Nope, not happening.

What the hell had happened at that damn bar?

Sam, still unsettled over Dean's recent behavior, scrapped further research and retreated to the sofa with a paperback western he'd picked up at a used book sale at some library or another. Mindless matter to occupy his thoughts was what he needed. On one hand, he was happy that Dean was finally showing signs of overcoming the worst of the concussion, but on the other hand, he was not looking forward to dealing with a recalcitrant Dean and forcing him to alter his behavior for the benefit of his own health.

Keeping Dean down was never easy. It took time and patience and manipulation, extensive and deep knowledge of knowing Dean, knowing how to coerce and guilt-trip him and even then, sometimes – hell, who was he kidding, most times – Dean did whatever the hell he wanted to anyway.

And on top of _all that,_ his brother's health and well-being and continued recovery – which so far had gone remarkably well – was at stake. And with growing alarm, the more information Sam unearthed and understood about the 'mark' made him progressively uneasy. And Dean's behavior? When riled, when angered, when denied his own way, Dean was impossible to reason with. The last couple of times Dean had 'marked' out on him, it'd taken everything Sam had to get through to his brother and even then, he'd needed help from Cas who had used his dwindling mojo to corral 'Dean, the destructive typhoon.'

Come on Tuesday, hurry up and get here. Hey, what say we make an agreement to just forget about Monday and skip right over the good-for-nothing day that's in my way? Sam sighed, backing up a page when he realized he'd turned it without reading any of the words it contained. Yeah, bargaining wouldn't get him anywhere, so how about a prayer; Oh God, who aren't in Heaven, puhl-leeees let me get him home!

***000***

The magazine Sam was listlessly thumbing through, not a word read, went topsy-turvy airborne when a nurse, happily chattering non-stop, pushed his brother down the hallway in a wheelchair – _a fucking wheelchair_! Alarmed, panic and hysteria warring for top billing, he strode forward to greet them.

"DEAN!" his arms were out, hands reaching to halt the forward progress of the chair by gripping either arm. The nurse, looking scared to death by the confrontation, squeaked when she hit the Sam-shaped immovable obstacle. "What the hell, Dean?" he peered intently into his brother's face, that while pale, didn't reflect any other signs of distress, discomfort or pain. "What happened?" he turned his fury on the nurse. "What did _you_ do to him?"

"Sam…Sammy….hey!" Dean gathered a handful of shirt and pulled his brother towards him, away from the nurse who shirked against the wall, hands still on the wheelchair handles. "Chill out dude."

"You're in a wheelchair, Dean. Why the hell are you in a wheelchair?" Sam demanded. "I didn't bring you in here in one, why are you leaving in one? You are leaving, aren't you?" he pinned the nurse with a look that had her back-stepping away. "He's leaving, right?"

"Sam, come on." Dean easily pushed out of the chair and used both hands and his own body weight to push Sam backwards. "CT is like, on the tenth floor or somewhere, it's a long walk."

"Where's the doctor? You know, I've had it with this back-wood, hick-town sorry excuse for a hospital." Sam seethed, the memory of his last experience with the staff still fresh in his mind. "I've been through this _here_ before." now that Dean was standing upright without aid, Sam was able to calm down. He also finally noticed the nurse was young, brunette, wore no ring on her finger and was easy on the eye. "Dean, did you….if you…. I swear….."

"The doc's coming right down." Dean flashed the nurse a smile. "All's good, he said I can leave to go home, just can't drive." he gave Sam his trade-mark smirk. "You done did good taking care of me. Okay? Come on, buy me a coke while we wait."

The doctor took his time arriving. By then Sam had worked himself into a wrinkled fit that nothing Dean said or did smoothed out. With feigned weakness, droopy eyelids, and a moan or two, he was able to keep Sam seated next to him, but even sitting shoulder-to-shoulder didn't stop Sam's knee from jouncing, keep his hands still or save his hair from repeated hand-shoveling. Man, how did the kid manage to make his hair stick out like straw escaping from a clothed scarecrow? Seriously, it stood out every which way all on its own!

Lips twitching, fighting a smug smirk, Dean reached out and attempted to pat Sam's hair into some kind of obedience. It fought back. Dean used both hands. Sam scowled. Dean took an ear in each hand and shook the head to which they were attached. The damnable hair laughed, it didn't fall flat. Dean poked, it poked back. When Dean tugged on one side, the other side went bloop, straight out.

"You spit on your palm and attempt to smooth my hair down, I will force you to your knees by your ear." Sam stated calmly.

Dean grinned and patted Sam on top of his head.

"Gentlemen." the doctor had approached without either brother being aware. "Mr. Singer, good day." he took a seat across from them and opened a file he carried in his hand. "So, then…."

The doctor droned on, Dean tuned him out. He was warm and his head had begun to ache. Oh boy, was it overly hot in the waiting room or what? His palms were sweaty and he felt the flush sting his cheeks. He used his shoulder to wipe his face, wouldn't do to break out in a full-blown sweat. No way Sam wouldn't notice that! His neck itched and he tried to remember if he'd used deodorant that morning.

He began to fidget. He tried not to.

Blah-blah….plenty of rest, plenty of fluids, restricted access to sun, light activity, light diet, no driving, no strenuous activity, no contact sports, no operating of heavy machinery, no climbing flights of stairs, no flying, no heights – as in, don't climb towers or ladders or trees or walk on roofs, duh – what, did he think Dean looked like a fireman? Blah-blah…...once he could touch his toes – eh? – it would be alright to advance on to light exercise, such as, a stationary bike, jogging or swimming, but not alone. Blah-blah….practice eye-to-hand coordination, play catch, or bounce a hard rubber ball off a wall and catch it with one hand, repeat, catch with the other hand….blah-blah….test motor skills, jump on one foot – if anyone thought he was going to play hopscotch, he'd show them with his right fist just how good his motor-skills were – jumping jacks, cut paper with a scissors on a straight line, tie his shoes, jigsaw puzzles...

Dean began a silent conversation. 'Oh now, wait a minute, hold on…Sam, do something! Why are you letting him go on and on about stupid shit? Wait, wait, what….what the fuck are you doing?! When I said do something, I didn't mean take out pen and paper and start taking notes! Ack!'

"Yeah, okay Doc, sure." Dean said testily when Sam, eager and willing to absorb everything the doctor was spewing, showed no signs of cutting the nonsense short. "Can I go home now?"

"Shush." Sam waved him silent, pen in hand, notepad balanced on his knee. "Don't interrupt."

"But I'm bored!" Dean huffed. "I don't wanna sit here and listen to him all day." he looked around. "Gimme some money, we passed a vending machine down the hall."

"No." Sam said. "Shut up."

"Gimme a dollar." he began to dig in Sam's pocket, knowing it would irritate the younger man. "Give it up. I want another coke, this one got warm."

"Stop." Sam nudged his hand away. "Can you behave? Please? Just stay put and be quiet."

"It's right there." Dean pointed down the hallway, withdrew a wad of bills from one of Sam's many pockets and counted out several singles. "Like, I dunno, five doors that way."

"Stay where I can see you."

Dean rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "Sure, I'll balance on one foot so I can keep the other in the hallway where you can see it. Won't be too dangerous, you know, for a man in my condition." he added dryly.

"You know Dean." Sam began. "Stop being an ass. You've put me through enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Have tea time with Doc but I'm ready to go."

"Five minutes."

"Yuh-huh."


	3. Chapter 3

Sam watched him walk away, one eye and an ear on the retreating figure, the other set on the doctor, who once Dean departed, continued with his lecture.

"I can't make him stay here, I can't force you to obey my instructions, but I can, and do, strongly insist that you somehow make him come to terms with reality."

Sam rubbed his forehead, choking on a curse when Dean put 'his right foot in and shook it all about'. He knew, without seeing that Dean was supported with both hands either on the wall or the vending machine. He clicked his pen and along with the notepad, stowed it in a pocket.

"Yeah, well, my whole life doc." Sam sighed. "Been doing that my whole life." and how's that going for you, Sam ole buddy? How successful have you been?

"He said you were brothers, do you work together? I met his partner when she brought him in."

Sam shook loose the rambling mental voice in his head and forced himself to focus. "Part…? Oh, Officer Mills." he nodded. "Aah, yeah, same line of work."

"I strongly suggest, he doesn't return to that line of work until he is able to perform the motor skills we discussed. It'll be a slow process but he will improve. A third blow to his head before he's fully recovered could render him critically injured. Call me in six weeks and I will forward his file to whatever hospital you take him to for a follow-up CT Scan."

That will never happen, Sam vowed silently, not as long as Cas is around. "He said we could head home?" Sam questioned. A hand appeared in the doorway, fingers pointed up, then down, the thumb waggled, the fingers made a V, then flipped him off before making the sign of love. Sam seethed; he was going to kill the damn fool. Slowly, with a lot of pain. He'd take pleasure inflicting it, too.

"He pushed until I reluctantly conceded." the doctor admitted. "As long as he didn't drive."

"So, you don't recommend it." yup, Sam sure was going to throttle his brother who was now headed back to him. Look at him all smug and full of smirk. His hands itched to smack that look right off his face. Course, hitting him with any force at all, might well knock him on his ass.

"Not until he can look at light without a wince or squinting. I suggest waiting another week."

Sam stood up but made no promises to the doctor. "Thanks doc." he held his hand out to shake hands. "I'll be in touch."

Dean tried to sip from the bottle of coke as he walked, steps slowing the closer he got to his brother, wishing for a straw. Tipping his head back made the immediate space within his vision swirl and dip. He rubbed the back of his hand along his forehead that was slick with sweat. Oh, that was not good. So not good. Not good at all. No way would Sam agree to load up the Impala and head for home if Dean was all pale and sweaty.

He wiped his hand on the ass of his jeans. Nah, he could hide it. Sam would never know, he could get anything past good ole gullible Sammy when he put his mind to it. All he needed was a minute to sit down. Maybe then he wouldn't have to tip his head back so far and he'd be able to drink enough soda to calm his stomach. Yeah, that was his plan and a good plan it was too.

"Dean?"

What the…..? Wasn't Sam ready to go? He was standing up, so why weren't they leaving? It was time to go. Dean wanted to leave, therefore - translation Dean-to- English - it was time to go. Well, first he wanted to sit down for a moment, just until his head cleared and…..oh drat. Hands were reaching out, holding his sleeves, cupping his chin, touching his cheek, tipping is head up – don't do that Sam, I'll puke on your shoes – prying his eyelids wide, feeling his forehead. Damn, a road-block – that fucking Sam-shaped roadblock, yeah, he wasn't moving it.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked worriedly. "What did you do? We should go, let you lie down."

Figures, Sam was _finally_ ready to go and now all Dean wanted to do was _sit _down before he _fell _down. "Leave off." he growled, swatting at the arms holding him. But his swipes were ineffective and uncoordinated which apparently alerted Sam to the fact that something was indeed wrong.

"What the hell, Dean? You went for a fucking soda!" Sam exploded, pushing and pulling and prodding and Dean was off his feet and on his ass with no clear memory of how it'd happened and his hands were…..empty.

Hey, what'd happened to his soda? Where'd it go? "Lotsa light." he slurred thickly. "Yow-ow…ow, ow, ow."

Sam fumed.

"Dizzy…in the….head." Dean swallowed, mouth dry. "…and I feel…..bad."

Sam's fuming ratcheted up a notch.

Dean knew it did. Even with his eyes were closed, he knew Sam was fuming because he could hear him huffing and blowing his breath through his nose. Knew his lips were twitching, his nostrils were flaring, his brows were scrunched up and merged into one over his nose, hell, he bet that vein in his neck was throbbing and popping.

"Really Dean? Really? Singing the Scorpions? Now? Here? At a time like this?"

"Who." Dean automatically corrected, still awash in misery and trying to decide whether to vomit or pass out. "Hot….just warm." what the hell was Sam doing now? What the fuck was on his face? His nose, his ears, touching his cheeks…oh sunglasses. Yeah, he probably should have thought about putting those on earlier. "Scorp's remade…..." aah, yeah, look at the look at that face, Sam was in no mood for a rock-n-roll history lesson. "I'm ready…." he swallowed, tonguing his teeth. "…..ready to go….home." he paused. "Where's…my…..soda?"

"You see?! Sam's arms waved about so rapidly and with such abandon, that a breeze was created, a breeze Dean coveted and sought out. "THIS! This is what he always does!" Sam ranted at the doctor. "And you!" he turned on Dean. "This is why we can't go home." he took Dean's elbow, tightening his grip when Dean attempted to shake free, then pull loose. "You never listen! Couldn't sit still for five freaking minutes. Just had to go and get a soda! What the hell am I supposed to do with you? You're turning me grey and driving me to drink and making me a stress eater….."

"Sorry." Dean cut him off, speaking slowly, he wanted to be heard the first time. "You don't let go and gimme my soda, I'm gonna puke on your shoes." it wasn't an idle threat.

And, presto, all new Sammy. The cooling wafts of air stopped circulating when Sam drew his arms in for a landing but the cold bottle of soda was in his hand and guided to his mouth. Aah…..so good.

"Here." Sam limited his intake of the cold liquid. "Careful, no gulping." the flow of the soda was controlled but he was given all the time he needed to finally drink his fill. He heard voices, a murmuring hum of conversation going on around him, but he paid it no mind.

"Wheelchair's right here." the doctor retrieved it and wheeled it over, holding it steady while Sam manhandled Dean from the table he was perched on to the comfort and security of the chair with arms and foot rests.

"Thanks doc." Sam patted Dean's shoulder. "We're good."

Um…..yeah, okay, sure. Dean silently agreed, but he was ready to lie down, so he didn't argue or complain or comment when Sam wheeled – yes, wheeled or pushed, whatever – him out to the car, settled him in the passenger seat and left him – within eyesight, of course – to return the wheelchair to the hospital entrance. He didn't raise his head from the window when Sam returned, didn't offer criticism over Sam's driving or give advice on how to handle the car properly. He didn't ask where they were going or if they were going to go home, just obediently followed Sam from the car, up to the hotel room and went to bed, leaving Sam a jumble of nerves and full of anxiety.

***000***

Sam bumped the right-side tires off the berm, came to a stop, put the car in park and once again, consulted the GPS app on his tablet. Unlimited data plans were expensive and Sam had no idea how Dean paid the bill, but with two phones and two tablets needing the internet, he wasn't going to bitch about the expense or question how it was provided.

He was about to cry. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going his way. Aah, let's see, please let there be a connection…..yes!…well shit, nope, five miles later and nothing had changed. They were still in the middle of nowhere, it was still the middle of the night, though it was now 2:23 a.m. instead of 2:15 a.m., and they were five miles further down the same dark, deserted two-lane backwoods country road.

They'd left the hotel, where they'd remained a week after the visit to the hospital, late that afternoon. Though Dean was now able to tolerate light without towels draped over the shades or wearing sunglasses indoors, Sam hadn't been brave enough to attempt travelling during the day when the sun shone the brightest and the hottest. He'd planned, prayed and hoped for an easy trip, but no. No, Sam was a Winchester – the youngest – and that meant luck was rarely on his side and what luck he did get was so filtered down that by the time it reached him, it could only be described as: 'if it weren't for bad luck, he'd have no luck at all'.

First, they'd been held up in traffic due to an accident, three hours of sitting in the waning sun, though while not brutally hot, still had given Dean one hell of a headache, making him cranky. Then, once finally through that, it'd taken over two hours to yield into one lane due to a lane closure and THEN – as if five fucking hours hadn't been enough of a fucking delay – they'd been forced onto a fucking detour, due to emergency road construction on a bridge. And oh yeah, congratulations, state of fucking Nebraska, for saving money by not spending any on supplying, you know, fucking detour signs.

Then, just when Sam thought they'd be able to make some progress, Dean had wanted to stop and eat. No, big brother had insisted disdainfully, crackers and apples and protein bars were not an acceptable snack, let alone a meal. Sam, tired of listening to him mope and whine and sigh, had driven some fifteen miles out of their way to find a diner. By the time they'd finished eating and left the restaurant - where Dean ate two bites of a chicken sandwich and five or six of Sam's fries - a mere hour later, a storm had blown up, making quick progress difficult.

The wind – never their friend – had forced Sam to pull off the road numerous times. Dean nauseous, Sam assumed, from the car buffeting in the uncooperative weather. Once, it had been over an hour before Dean had stopped moaning pitifully and breaking out into a new sweat whenever Sam mentioned continuing on. Maybe it had been the damn greasy diner food, Sam fretted, not that Dean had eaten all that much.

"Damn it." he slapped the steering wheel with both palms in frustration. "Fuck me." the app had road alerts and a red triangle began to flash. "Now what? What else...? Nonononononononononono!"

Dean stirred, offended by the abuse being dealt to his beloved car. "Watch it." he slurred sleepily. "She never did anything to you."

"Go back to sleep." Sam ordered shortly, in no mood to exchange words with Dean over something as trivial as his treatment of the car. He was too tired. His eyes burned and his vision was blurry, making his ability to judge distance non-existent. He wanted a hot shower, mug of vodka laced coffee, a pillow and a bed.

He sighed. Dean was uneasy, the weather was awful and he was exhausted. He really should see about getting his brother somewhere safe where he could get him warm and dry and fed some Tylenol…..but home was less than two hours away and boy, it was tempting to drive on. Dean wanted to go home, and Sam wanted him home, but Sam was also the nervous-ninny who wanted off the road. He knew his limitations, but if asked, Dean would say; suck it up and drive on; would suffer his misery in silence and deal if it meant his memory-foam-it-remembers-me mattress was his reward for doing so.

Sam's fingers rat-a-tat-tatted on the steering wheel in rhythm to the rain. Oh hell. Another sigh. Should he concede defeat and find a motel, wherever the fuck they were – he didn't even know anymore – wasn't any town nearby – drive on, or pull off and spend what was left of the night in the car? What to do, what to do, what should he do? A sign, any sign would be nice. Hey bud, you out there, Cas? Little help here, dude.

Red flash, red flash, red flash. The tablet, balanced on his thigh, seemed to grow hot. Okay… what did that red flashing triangle mean…..let's see…what? Road closed ahead? Bridge out? Severe flooding? Turn radio to 1610 a.m. for further information. Well, that was new, who knew a mere app could be so specific?

"Okay Cas, that the best you can do?" Sam fiddled with the knob, trying to tune in the station. Seriously, would it kill Dean to upgrade the radio? You know, get one with a digital display and numbered preset stations? Ooops, too far, back up, wow, lots of static…..there…..a recording…..yup, that was the road they were on….mile marker…..mile marker…no, not to mile seventy-four yet…..what? Oh, sure, sure, the app was right, the road was closed. No further progress past exit seventy-four was possible. "It's good Cas, I'll take it. Thanks."

Well-ell-el, that made his decision easy, and he set about trying to find a motel. His thumb scrolled and swiped; huh, no, no town, nothing. Couldn't go forward, the thought of turning around nearly gave him a stroke…..couldn't stay where they were…so…..uh, Cas? He waited, and several seconds later, a blue blip on the screen popped up. He pressed it for more information, a…..vacation resort? Well, that was weird. They were in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, who the hell would vacation out here? Duh, Sam, did it matter? As long as it was a comfortable, stable retreat that offered warmth and shelter and a bed, it could be a religious retreat run by militia militants and he wouldn't care.

He hesitated briefly, a resort usually required a reservation but surely, they'd take into account the weather and the flooding, right? Didn't matter, they'd give him a room or else! Or else, he'd hold a gun on whoever had the misfortune to deny him the opportunity to make his brother comfortable until someone gave them somewhere to sleep – even if it meant he had to take hostages and leave them bound and gagged in some dark and dank basement. Or, considering Sam's mood was now bordering on violent, outside tied to a tree.

"Hang on Dean." Sam shifted the transmission into drive and managed a neat K-turn. "Hey? You ok?"

"Lemme 'lone." he mumbled. "It still raining?" he was still wet from his last dash out of the car to puke in a ditch and Sam didn't know if he shivered from the cold or illness or pain.

"Yeah. You good?" Sam still wasn't sure if it'd been the diner food – hell, his own stomach was queasy – or the motion of the car making Dean sick. He could blame his unsettled stomach on stress and anxiety.

"Mmmm." his head rested against the cool window, cheek squeaking along the glass when the car hit a pothole or bump, of which, Dean decided, there were way too many. His stomach would soon force another stop. Though, if Sam would quit forcing him to drink water every five freaking minutes, he bet he'd stop puking. When they stopped again – and they would – he was crawling into the backseat and lying down for the duration of the ride.

He snorted, yeah, that'd cause an epic Sam-freak-out.

"What?" Sam asked, leaning forward to peer out the windshield. "Would it kill this county to, you know, install a street light or two? Cripe." he complained testily, so not in mood to have anything else in the way of weather or traffic thrown at him. "I can't see a fucking thing."

"…..me to drive?" Dean stirred, sitting up and blinking at the windshield. "Huh." he rubbed his eyes, man was his vision blurry. Like, really blurry. Like, super blurry. Like, he couldn't make out shapes or objects blurry. "Memmbe not." his stomach coiled, tightened and threatened to force his insides out any available orifice. Oh, he knew that feeling well – panic. "Sam?! SAM!"

"What? What, I'm right here."

"Sam, my eyes!" his hands rubbed his eyes and he flailed, feet kicking. "MY EYES! Sam! MY….I…..I….stop…..STOP! SAM!"

"Hey, hey, hey." Sam braked and came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the lane. "Dean, Dean, hey, you're ok….calm down." when he couldn't grab his brother's hands with his ass parked behind the steering wheel, he hastily slammed the car into park, ignored the growl from the transmission over the abuse and slid across the seat. "Dean, hey, HEY! What are you doing?" he grappled with his brother for the upper hand. "Stay in the car…gimme your hands….Dean, hey, hey, hey….no. Stop shouting, I'm right here. Feel me, okay? Right here….give me your hands…that's it." he finally succeeded in capturing Dean's hands and when he squeezed, his thumbs rubbing Dean's palms, his brother stopped blabbering nonsense Sam couldn't understand and fell silent, his breathing fast pants. "Now, you calm? You ok? Dean, hey, look at me."

Dean nodded, hands grasping the sleeves of Sam's jacket and he held tight with clenched fingers, his head lowered.

"Now, tell me what's wrong." Sam said, struggling for calm and control. His heart was about to kick its way right out of his chest. He couldn't take many more scares from his brother, he just couldn't.

Dean, eyes closed, took a deep breath, struggled to control his panic and squeezed Sam's forearms. "I CAN'T SEE!" Christ alive, how many times did he have to say it before Sam got it through his thick head?! "I. Can't. See!"

Well knowing how rapidly his brother could succumb to panic, Sam raised an arm and held Dean's head still by an iron grip on his jaw, forcing him to eye level. "Look at me…hey, no…don't slant your eyes sideways, look at me. At me, Dean….that's it…what do you see? Do you see me?" but Dean wasn't listening, straining to stare out the windshield.

Sam's mind whirled. For the life of him, he couldn't recall temporary blindness being a symptom of the concussion. Though in his current state, he doubted he could remember his own name. He relaxed his hold from Dean's jaw, turned the dome light on and moved his hand to shield Dean's eyes from the light, and in doing so, blocked his peripheral vision.

"You calm now? Can you tell me what…..?" he caught sight of the windshield; the rain-running windshield, because the wipers were idle. "This?" he reached for the wiper switch, Dean's hand going with his because Dean refused to let go of him. "Dean, it's the rain, okay? Just rain. See? It's raining hard and you looked out the window, that's why everything is blurry and distorted, it's just rain."

Gulping, Dean slowly relaxed his grip of death from Sam's sleeves. Just when Sam thought Dean would pull away and resume his usual position, slumped against the door, his shoulder shuddered with the weight of Dean's head. Sam tipped his head back and peered down. Deciding Dean needed a moment, he allowed the position.

"You good?" Sam asked after a good five minutes and Dean finally pulled away and leaned over the seat to root in the back for a bottle of water. "We can't stay here."

"Don't feel too good." Dean admitted tiredly. "Where are we?"

Sam shifted to drive and eased the car forward, mindful of the slick road and her being ass-end heavy. "I dunno, lost."

"Huh." Dean settled in the passenger seat and just like that, leaving Sam to stew, went back to sleep, all prior signs of panic and discontent gone.

The Impala, bless her loyalty and dependability had two speeds on the wipers, slow and fast, no interment. Slow wasn't fast enough, fast slapped the window in tempo, giving Sam a headache that increased his irritability with; the weather, the car, his brother, his life. One eye on the road, the other slanted at his brother, Sam drove on at the top speed of 15 miles an hour, his 'third eye' on the moving blip on the GPS map. No wonder mom's had eyes in the back of their heads.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam stared at the screen, the blue blip no longer moved, just blipped, marking the spot, so he stopped the car and leaned forward to peer out the windshield. There was no town, not one building, not even a fucking lamp-post. He growled, contemplating throwing his tablet with its flashing red triangles and blue blips out the window and stomping on it before kicking it to never-land. How did a person de-wing or do whatever the hell one did to incapacitate an angel? Oh, he knew how, he just…..wait…..what was that? He waited impatiently for the lightning to flash again…yup, there….. a wooden sign next to a turn-off. Sam wouldn't exactly call it a road, but yeah, the dirt, rutted lane was wide enough to maneuver a car down.

Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, fingers fisted around the steering wheel so tightly he was surprised it didn't crack under the pressure, he turned down the lane. He drove for about a half mile before the cars headlights cut through the curtain of rain to show a log shack – no, correction – make that a shed.

Oh. Good. God.

_This_ was Cas's idea of a safe haven? Appropriate shelter? Acceptable accommodations? A one-room shack in the middle of god-damn fucking nowhere? Hell, Sam didn't even see power lines. He shifted into park, and consulted his watch, 3:37 a.m. Oh yeah, by now, he was having a full-blown, fuming fit. He took a moment to look around, twisting in the seat to look out all the windows. Nope, no power lines, no paved parking lot, not even a paved road. Hell, no sign of any road other than the muddy one he was parked on.

Great.

Well, there….that! That could be a wan light visible from a square window set high in the door. Course, through the rain and gloom, it could be his eyes playing tricks on him too. Well, four walls and a roof were better than the car, so might as well see what the interior of the shack had to offer. Leaving Dean in the car with it running, he slipped and slid in the rain, through the slop, across the mud, over the flooded grass and under a sign. He ducked under it, then backed-up, still stooped over to shine his flashlight on it so he could read it.

"River Lake Camp." he pushed his hair back. "Oh, you've got to be fucking with me!" not another campground, please no. He'd yet to hear the end of the last time he'd housed Dean at a campground. "Cas….I'll get you for this."

He mounted the wood steps that led to a small porch on what – upon closer inspection – could be described as a small, very small, cabin rather than a mere shed. Before he could do more than touch the door knob, the door opened from the inside and he was greeted by an elderly man dressed in a….boy scouts uniform? Yes, indeed. Oh boy.

"Well, good evening, young fellow!" the man boomed jovially, despite it being the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a freaking storm. "Come in, come in. Right nasty weather we're having, huh? Reckon I don't have to guess what brings you clear up here this time o-night in this weather, though I'll admit to being surprised they got cell reception out there."

"Uh." Sam used the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. "What?"

"You're young one?" the door closed behind Sam and he immediately turned to open it, not wanting any obstacle between him and his view of the car. "I'm betting little Billy, am I right? Had him pegged for a Momma's boy, that one."

"Um….no….no. I'm sorry sir, what?"

"Call me Will." he held his hand out. "Pleased to meet you. I met most of the parents on drop-off day, don't recollect seeing you though. Step-dad maybe?"

Sam pulled it together and shook the man's hand. The one-room cabin boasted a pot-belly stove in the corner that, though small, warmed the room quite comfortably. As he looked around, comprehension dawned; smacked him right upside the head, struck him in the forehead, chucked him under the chin. A retreat, the small cabin, the man in uniform, the pictures and plaques on the walls, the ribbons and badges on every available counter space, the books on the tables, the magazines in the racks, the information pamphlets on display…..yup…..they were indeed at, none other than a Cub/Boy Scout Camp.

"Erhm….aah….no….no. We're…" he couldn't stop stuttering. "Is this a camp for _Scouts_?" he blurted out rudely. Could be worse, he thought, shoving irritably at his dripping hair, could be a Girl Scouts camp. He shuddered, and it wasn't because of the chilled air outside or the cold rain. No, it was over the thought of a bunch of pre-pubescent girls giggling and tee-heeing over Dean's green eyes and freckles or, God Forbid, the adult counselors and chaperones fussing over the milking-it-for-all-he's-worth little shit who would play-up his injury and illness to gain underserved sympathy and attention….

"Yessir!" Will beamed. "Right proud of it, we are. Bird-watching, hiking, kayaking, swimming, tree planting, plant collecting, insect hunting, fishing, boat rowing, animal and tree and plant identification. We teach about fire safety and….." he chattered on. "….survival and….."

The camp, Sam learned with an eagle eye and attentive ear; contained a kitchen, dining hall, toilets, and a first aid station – all out back – in tents. There were no rooms or cabins other than the one in which he stood; the Scouts stayed in tents behind the lodge or in the great wide open when they hiked down the hill to camp next to the river that fed into the lake. Down the road a ways was a cluster of houses, no, no motels or any place with rooms to rent, with a gas station/mini-mart. Well, la-de-la, finally, something was going their way.

"Where are we?" Sam demanded impatiently, interrupting when Will paused for a breath. "There was an accident, and a detour, then emergency road work. We got delayed, then lost. The weather turned and I'm beat and my brother isn't feeling well. Is there a motel in town?" all those outdoor activities? Really? Wasn't the state of Nebraska known for, you know, farm land?

"Passing through, eh? Which way you headed?" Will was flipping through a 3-ring binder and counting. "Closet motel is seventeen miles west, can't reach it though." he found what he'd been looking for and with a finger marking his spot on the page, looked up at Sam. "That emergency road work, no doubt, was the bridge on Rte. 45. No going back, they closed it, couldn't repair it tonight. Can't go forward neither, Little Creek flooded her banks and her bridge is under water. Now though, bit of good news, the troop is camping out at the lake. I can offer you a tent outback."

"Oh." Sam shook his head. "Uh…..flood?" he grimaced, Dean in a tent? Even for the remainder of the night? The campground had at least afforded them a well-sized camper with electricity and heat. Yeah, no, bunking down in a tent wouldn't go over well at all. But…but it was late, middle-of-the-night late, almost-dawn late and even if he could, Sam didn't want to drive another seventeen miles in search of a motel, he didn't think he could, but….. "Um." he rubbed his forehead with his thumbs, his poor mind simply didn't want to think. It was Tuesday, right? No, now it was pre-dawn Wednesday morning…..so….so, so what? What difference did it make what day of the week it was? Didn't change their situation or circumstances at all. "Um…"

"Not going south are you?" Will asked. "Hit worse down that way."

Now, how'd he go and guess that correctly? "Um….yeah. Kansas." his brain smacked his skull. "Wait, you said…flood?"

"Woo-wee, you sure did take some twists and turns to end up here. We're thirty-two miles off the interstate. These back roads have a habit of flooding. You're not going anywhere until we get some news on the road conditions." Will was way too cheerful for Sam's current mood. "Tents are big enough for two, cots with sleeping bags or you can spread a sleeping bag out on the floor in the cafeteria, but the tent offers some privacy, more comfort and they're warmer."

"Flood?" not an ideal situation. Not the accommodations Sam wanted, but the bare truth was, he was too exhausted to continue on. What harm could come from spending a couple of hours sleeping in a tent? Decision made, Sam said thank-you and good-night, returned to the car and drove the short distance around the cabin to the muddy field that served as a parking lot. Oh but Den was going to throw a fit when he saw the state of the car, for surely, come daylight, she'd be sporting a coating of mud up to her wheel wells.

Surprisingly, Dean didn't question the order to get out of the car. The door opened and he stumbled from the seat, staggering towards…..huh. He stopped, raised a hand to shield his eyes against the gentle but steady rainfall, hunched his shoulders against the cold and buffeting winds and stared. Yeah, no, see…..couldn't be…no way…nuh-huh. He couldn't be seeing what he was seeing because that would mean…..

"What the hell?" he sputtered, feet refusing to advance him further. "Where the fuck are we Sam?" his head must still be befuddled, yeah, that was it. Sleep deprived or bad food or delirium because…. "Is that a tent?"

"Go inside Dean." Sam ordered.

"That's a tent."

"Don't do this Dean." Sam said wearily. "I'm not up to you throwing a fit. I'm just not, so cut me a break, will ya?"

"Really? Really Sam? I mean,_ really_?!" his feet might not be working, but his eyes were working just fine now, much to his dismay. "That? You EXPECT me to sleep in that? In….in….that? That's a tent! I….I…..you _want_ me to sleep in a _tent?"_

"Yup and it doesn't matter how many times you say it, it ain't gonna change what it is." Sam rounded the back of the car and popped the trunk. "Best I could do. What's the big deal anyway?"

"The back seat of the Impala is better than this!" he grumbled some more but Sam couldn't make it out. "Tent's leak and they're cold and the ground's hard….are you listening to me?"

Aah, there was the harm; the imminent danger of becoming an only sibling via fratricide. "Yuh-huh." Sam said absently. In the truck sorting the bags he wanted to take into the tent with him, he really wasn't paying much attention to Dean's whining.

"I…..you know, there was the cabin at the lake that didn't have power and I didn't complain. And I didn't say anything when we shared that cabin with the Sheriff and his kid, or stayed with that old witch. My lips were sealed when we crashed at Jody's and when we stayed with that nurse the time you lost me. I forgave you for the horror of that B&B and didn't blame you for the camper. And all those times we squatted in abandoned buildings and houses were because you didn't want to sleep in the car. I didn't even hold it against you when you made me room with Garth…..GARTH but this? _THIS?_ Really?"

"You rented the cabin at the lake." Sam came out of the trunk with what he wanted and slammed it closed. "There was nothing wrong with staying with Jack. Grandma wasn't a bad witch and having to stay with her was all your fault because you shacked up with some unstable bimbo and – don't." he warned when Dean opened his mouth to protest. "Don't you dare say it was because Bobby and I sent you away. That's bullshit." he waved towards the tent to get Dean moving. "And I didn't lose you, you took off and you're damn lucky Suzie found you and took you home with her. It was Kevin who stranded you in the B&B with the family from hell, not me. And oh yeah, you're the one who ordered me to allow Garth into the cabin and it's because I didn't want you recovering in a mold-riddled house that I found a comfy, cozy camper for you."

"Oh." Dean rubbed his eyes. So, Sam had been listening to him. "Okay, fine, fine, blame it all on me, sure, I can handle it…..but Sam…..a _tent_?"

"It has cots; we won't be sleeping on the ground." Sam sighed. Now Dean wakes up and finds the ability to talk coherently? What happened to ranting about being blind? No, not talk, one thing about Dean, you could always depend on him to criticize – everything he didn't like.

"I'd rather sleep in the car."

"Well, you can't."

"What do you mean, I can't? Says who? You?" he didn't pause to give Sam time to answer, not that Sam had any intention of doing so anyway. "Why not? We've done it before, lotsa times." he was irritated. Yeah, sure, he'd wanted a place to lie down, the motion of the car making him nauseous, but…..this? Hell, they were barely out of the weather in a canvas tent! The car offered better protection and…

"Because I don't want to Dean!" San finally snapped and flared up. "I'm tired and the weather is shit and the wipers are splitting my head apart. I want to lie down without my chin on my knees. Your head can't still be so scrambled you can't understand that!"

Dean gave him a wounded look. "You don't have to yell at me." he said, affronted. "A simple explanation will do."

"No it won't. Nothing is ever good enough with you when you don't get your own way." Sam ranted. "Simple isn't in your vocabulary when it comes to getting what you want."

"And the insults begin."

"You want to do this now?" Sam shouldered a duffel, wet hair hanging in his face despite the wind doing its best to flip it around. "Fine, FINE! A grand place to pick this fight, but I'll oblige you. Once again, the situation we find ourselves in is because of you. Your fault Dean, you did this. You got hurt and arrested and landed in the hospital and got yourself laid up for weeks. How'd that happen again? Not like I know, you won't tell me anything. I still don't know what happened. Oh, the bar, that's right? Ring any bells? Oh, wait, you had your bell rung….."

"Sam, don't." Dean snapped. "I'm not gonna deal with you and your issues now." if Sam started pointing fucking fingers at him, he'd break 'em. "Always have to pick, don't you?"

"You're going to give me shit? Wow, been with it two days and bam, way to be a prick. Same old Dean, right back to blowing me off."

"I'm not blowing you off!" Dean shouted. "I don't REMEMBER what happened at the bar! IF I do, I'll give you every detail in instant replay, but until then – back the fuck off!"

"Really Dean? Really? You started this!"

"How?" Dean demanded. "Because I don't want to sleep in a fucking tent?"

"DO YOU SEE ANYPLACE ELSE TO STAY?" Sam bellowed. "DO YOU SEE A FUCKING LIGHT POST? DO YOU SEE ANYTHING OTHER THAN TREES?"

"Yeah, a tent!" he blinked, well hell, there was more than one tent. "Sam, I swear, if you found some freaky commune…."

"Just. Get. Inside." Sam ordered. "It's for one night Dean. You'll manage." he bit his lip to keep from bursting forth with the tirade building in his chest. "We'll leave in the morning."

Dean unzipped – _unzipped_ – the flap on the tent, ducked his head and entered. Surprisingly, the interior of the tent was dry, warmer than outside, and cut the wind. It boasted two cots to keep them from feeling the dampness of the ground, complete with pillows and all-weather sleeping bags; a table stood between them containing a battery-operated clock and a solar LED lantern; another table was at the foot of the cots with two Maglite flashlights, extra batteries, some books and magazines and a map of the camp ground. No source of heat, though.

Yeah, these were no ordinary back-pack tents. These were stationary, like those on M.A.S.H., but Dean didn't care about the interior of the tent or Sam's snit-fit. He shed his wet clothes, left them in a pile on what was actually a floor, sat down on the cot to remove his boots and jeans, stood up, unzipped and then crawled into the sleeping bag. He laid down facing the wall of the tent, completely ignoring his brother.

"Oh, no you don't." Sam ignored the dire threats issued by an irate Dean and thrown at him like iron anvils when he forced his brother to rouse for some Tylenol and to towel his hair dry with a pillow case. "Always gotta give me a hard time, don't you?" he wanted out of his own wet clothes and the comfort of the warm sleeping bag but Dean came first.

"Lemme be." Dean slurred sleepily. Lulled by the warmth of the sleeping bag and the ability to lie down, he was only awake because Sam had yet to leave him alone, his earlier disgruntlement over his sleeping accommodations forgotten. "Go a 'way."

Sam hovered around inside the tent searching and snooping until he was sure Dean slept, then grabbed a flashlight from the table as well as his own pocket light and ventured back out into the rainy, chilly night. If only he could sleep, he sighed, as the wind stung his cheeks. The rain had let up to a drizzle but the ground was soggy and full of puddles. Please, don't let the tent leak!

"I'm so sick and tired of detours and getting lost in freak storms and floods and mud and campers and cabins and rustic motels." Sam muttered to the tree he was taking a breather against. He pushed his hair back. "I feel like I'm the damsel in distress in some horror flick, running, looking over her shoulder, always falling. Rinse and repeat."

He trudged on. He was exhausted, his head pounded from tension and his eyes burned with fatigue but now that they were off the road, he needed to know they were safe where they were. If he were to gain any peace of mind, he needed to have a look around the campground and ensure the tent wasn't in danger from a falling tree or even a tree limb or a flood, or worse, a mudslide.

He hadn't even made a complete circle of the cluster of tents when a swath of light cut across the clearing. It swept over the car then came to rest on Sam. "Ahoy! Hello there!"

Sam put his hands up, he had no idea who was confronting him and didn't want to startle anyone into shooting him. He huffed, digging a heel into the mud, and when he felt no immediate threat, his hand without the flashlight eased behind his back to finger his .9 mm.

"Yeah, uh, hi." Sam said, shouting to be heard. "I don't mean anyone any harm." his mind was catching up and duh, it was doubtful armed men were patrolling a Cub Scout campground.

"Bad weather to be out in. What are you doing out here?"

"We were forced off the road for the night." Sam explained as the man, clad in a dark colored rain slicker came up beside him, armed only with a huge flashlight. "Bridge is flooded going south. Will offered us a tent for the night." or what's left of it, Sam thought sourly.

"Well, of course he did. Bet you came in on Rte. 45. Can't repair that bridge you know, closed it until the state engineers can come get a look at it. Welcome." he extended a hand which Sam shook. "Name's Rob. Town's reachable, but no place to stay, though the church hall is open as a shelter. Town of York, which offers reasonable rooms for rent is on the other side of mountain. Doubt you can drive there though."

Mountain? Really? Again, wasn't Nebraska known for its farm land? Wait, town? Was he referring to what Will had called a 'cluster of houses'? Will had said there was a mini-mart, he hadn't mentioned a church. Wow, he couldn't think straight, nothing was making any sense.

"You musta come in the back way." the man continued, not at all bothered by the rain or wind. "Pretty lucky you were able to navigate that dirt road. Heck, pretty darn lucky you even found us. We aren't on any map." he chattered on, walking with Sam while Sam completed his 'look around' until he was satisfied they would be safe staying in the tent. They were on high ground with the stream below them and no trees were within striking distance of the camp site.

Sam said good-night to Rob and returned to the tent, expecting to find Dean still asleep but nope, of course not. No, his obstinate, pig-headed brother was sitting up on the cot and struggling to find his way out of the sleeping bag. An object, mind you, that he had plenty of experience with and, were he not currently temporarily damaged in the head, would have no problem getting out of. Sam smirked; big ole bad hunter Dean stymied by a zipper. Then he sighed and ceded defeat. If Dean's current fit was being thrown over his insistence he stay in the car, Sam wasn't going to stop him.

"If you don't want to stay here, there's a shelter at the church hall a mile or so away." Sam said shortly. "Another cot, bright lights, no privacy, lots of noise, god knows who staying there. You wanna go, I'll take you."

"You're back?" Dean gave up on the zipper and sat with his hands in his lap, legs still encased in the sleeping bag, feet still on the cot. "Nah, I'm good." he laid down, pulling the sleeping bag up to his chin.

Sam removed his boots and wet clothing then dried off with the pillow case before swallowing some aspirin. Dean hadn't been getting up to leave or to go sleep in the car. No, he'd been getting up to go out and search for Sam because Sam had been gone from the tent too long. He snorted, he hadn't been gone fifteen minutes, but apparently, that was fourteen minutes too long to satisfy Dean.

Before crawling into his own sleeping bag, he swung his flashlight around the tent, not missing how Dean ducked his head under the bag to avoid the beam – Dean, who was curled up on his side, hugging a pillow. Great, he was cold. Sam quickly poked around every corner of the tent, nope, no extra blankets. Well, there was probably one or two out in the car.

"Just going out to the car." Sam said quietly, reeling in his annoyance. He didn't relish a dash out to the car in the cold rain but if he were to get any sleep at all, he'd need to make sure Dean was all comfy-cozy. Well, fine, but he'd be damned if he got redressed to retrieve a blanket from the car. Who the hell was around to see him, anyway?

There were two on the backseat and though he originally intended to give both to Dean, his teeth chattered by the time he returned and dried off. So, he wrapped up in the thinner of the two and finally crashed on the other cot, all snug as a bug in the sleeping bag.


	5. Chapter 5

I hear you!

Happy soon-to-be-Fall everyone! My favorite season.

* * *

They didn't leave in morning:

1. Neither Dean nor Sam was awake before noon and when Sam did finally see daylight, it was still raining.

2. Sam was still tired, and Dean complained about a headache.

3. The car was up to her doors in mud.

4. When Sam walked over to the cabin, he learned the roads ahead were blocked, and the bridge behind wouldn't even be looked at until the weather cleared.

5. They were safe right where they were and they had nowhere to go.

Dean dragged his spoon through the soup that, after playing in for several minutes, was too cool to eat. He pushed the bowl away with a sigh, cupped his chin in his hand and morosely picked up another slice of buttered bread. He held no enthusiasm for camp food geared towards eleven year-olds, but his tent lacked a kitchenette, no microwave, no mini 'fridge or toaster oven, hell, it didn't even have electric, so the camp kitchen it was.

Boy, he missed toast. He didn't care what anyone said or how many times Sam preached it; toast tasted better with both butter AND peanut butter. And while there were jars of peanut butter aplenty, he'd never gotten the hang of toasting bread over an open flame. The propane fed camp stove in the kitchen was off-limits and beyond his current capabilities anyway. He just wasn't up to the verbal argument required to get his own way. The short little Asian man who ruled the kitchen didn't speak English and warned everyone away from his appliances by wielding a wooden spoon he wasn't afraid to use, Dean would know, the back of his hand still stung!

One night, Sam had said. Yeah, right. Ho-hum.

He licked the butter from the bread, and drank his coffee. The camp might lack electricity, but there was a generator that ran at intervals to keep the 'fridge and freezer running. God knew the earth would tilt and spin right off its axis if the little rug rats were denied fresh milk. Powdered milk had been good enough for him when he'd been a kid, but noooo, not these days.

He hadn't been overly thrilled with Sam's decision to remain at the camp but he hadn't been too upset either. He was still so tired, his eyes heavy and the cot he hadn't wanted to sleep in appealed to him more than the passenger seat of the car did. Not that, under any circumstances, would he ever admit any such thing to Sam. Maybe the weather had something to do with it. He'd spent the day sleeping, lulled to laziness by the sound of the rain bouncing off the tent, finally getting up when hunger had forced him to seek out something to eat.

After an argument, some threats, some pleading, more arguments and finally, capitulation, Sam had left with Rob to go down to the campsite by the river and check on the kids. He'd left Dean with strict instructions and threats of violence – something about how easily ears detached from one's head – if he didn't obey Sam's orders to remain AT the camp! And Sam's definition of remaining IN THE camp included going no further than their tent, the cabin, the tent that housed the kitchen and the tent that housed the 'latrine'. His orders were simple: Dean was not to hike, stroll, run, swim, climb, drive, row, pedal, bend, lift, carry, swing, shoot or cook.

He'd also left Dean with the paperback western, a fully charged laptop with a dvd movie and the latest issue of Guns and Ammo to keep him amused while Sam was gone. After all, Sam had said, they were in the middle of nowhere with nothing and no one around them, what trouble could Dean possibly find to get into?

Trouble? No. Boredom? Yes. The laptop screen was too small to watch the movie on and the light was too bright to play the pre-loaded games for his barely recovered poor head. He'd dressed – Sam having produced black t-shirts and clean jeans from somewhere – and walked over to the kitchen tent for something to eat and here he sat. No idea what time it was or where they were or why or when Sam would be back or hell, why he'd even gone in the first place.

"Howdy, there son." Will strolled in and helped himself to a cup of coffee. "Rob just radio'd in. Everyone's fine, they're breaking camp and hiking back up here. They're gonna head out to the road, and come up that way, will take a little longer, but it's safer. Your brother passed along a message."

"Yeah, yeah, stay put, don't do anything stupid, take it easy…..blah, blah, blah." Dean waved him off. "Uh…how long do you think they'll be?"

"Several hours. It takes a while to get thirteen ten and eleven-year olds moving. I'm on my way into town, care to ride along?"

Hum, how many of Sam's rules would that be breaking? Only one, but it was a big one – leaving the camp – but he wouldn't be hiking, strolling, running, swimming, climbing, driving, rowing, pedaling, bending, lifting, swinging, shooting, carrying or cooking a damn thing and Sam hadn't said anything about _riding_!

"Sure." he tied his boots and pulled on his jacket, that though a few spots were damp, wasn't wet. "We, uh will be back before Sam finds his way back here, right?"

"Oh, most certainly." Will grinned.

"It's not what you're thinking." Dean objected. "I'm here when he gets back, hurricane Sammy will blow right through, no damage done. I'm not here when he gets back and there'll be destruction like you've never seen."

"He said you'd been hurt on the job. Head injury and you're still recovering. You were headed home when the traffic and road conditions derailed the trip."

Dean snorted. He was damn sure that while Sam might have shared information, he sure as hell hadn't used those words.

"Yeah, well, in our line of work, I'm off on my own, he'll only be mad at me. He finds out someone took me and…" and oh boy, there'd be hell to pay. He followed Will from the tent but hesitated when Will led him to a John Deere Gator, a glorified, souped up golf-cart, but what the heck, they had to get through all that mud somehow – and the parking lot was under water, no seriously, under water. Not puddles here and there – flooded. Ankle deep flooded. Oh-oh couldn't be good – and the two-seater had a cab so he shrugged off his unease and hopped in.

Sure, any type of four-wheeler had a tendency to be unstable but he doubted a Cub/Boy Scout leader would be bah-hahing through the rain soaked woods or hot-rodding it down the muddy road. Indeed, he thought a minute later, he could walk faster than Will was driving. There was little scenery to see trees, bushes, trees until they came to the mini-mart/gas station. Down the road, and across the river, Dean could see several houses, and that was it.

The gas station was unlocked and though they were able to gain entrance, no one was there. They hollered and rang the bell but no one responded so they walked next door to the mini-mart. It too, was closed but when Dean knocked on the door and peeked through the window, an arm over his head to deflect the light, a man with one arm came to let them in.

"Hey Will, didn't recognize you at first. Don't know this fellow with you." they were greeted. "Nasty weather, huh?"

"Where is everyone?" Will asked, stepping through the door. "Gas station's locked up tight. Dean, this is Gene." Will introduced the two men to one another. "Dean and his brother got caught between bridges last night, so I put them up in one of the tents."

"Boys still down at the lake?"

"They're on their way up. Coming up the road though, Rob said the river's at her banks."

"Safest place for them." Gene agreed and the two locals launched into a conversation that left Dean forgotten; he could neither understand nor follow what they were talking about. Unease settled in the pit of his stomach as their animated discussion wound down and he was able to pick up the topic was now only about the weather.

"Ain't much I can do to help, what with one arm and all, but I brewed up some coffee, filled every cup and thermos I could find, gonna put it all in the wagon along with some bottled water and walk it on over."

"Say what?" Dean butted in. He'd had enough of being left out and forgotten, time to insert his take-charge natural attitude. "Wait, are you…? What are you saying?" damn, he raised a hand to massage his forehead. His head hadn't hurt all day, why did it have to attack him now with a vengeance? Stress, must be stress. Hadn't Sam repeatedly told him over the last week or so, not to stress out? Let him do all the planning, all the worrying! Stress, apparently, wasn't good for post-concussion recovery. Well, according to Sam anyway.

"The church." Gene said simply, as if that explained it all.

"The church? Sam said…..you mean the shelter?" he waited for the man to nod. "What about it?" Dean sniffed, no, no scent of smoke. "Where is it?"

"Over the river and through the woods...…" Gene waved in the general direction of the door. "And up the hill."

"So, highest ground?" Dean reasoned, biting his lip to hide a wince. Not now, not now, not now. Behave head, I will wrestle you into submission. I will conquer your rebellion. I will….

"…..and the church is the town's shelter….." Gen was saying. "….but the river…" Dean was catching words, but not the explanation. "…separates the camp and…"

"Say, uh…..Gene is it?" Dean interrupted, taking a cup of coffee from Will and nodding his thanks. "Gene, why don't you start at the beginning and catch me up?"

"Sure, sure…" he launched into an explanation while Dean and Will helped him load the children's wagon with the coffee and water. Gene added canisters of sugar and powdered creamer. "….so, everyone's over filling sandbags, try and divert the water from flooding the church."

"I see." yeah, no, I really don't. "The church….?" he swallowed a handful of aspirin one of his pockets coughed up. Sam wouldn't like that, no sirree, not one bit!

"The town sits between the river and the creek. While the creek's flooded, its waters probably won't reach us. The river, should she flood…well, the church is on the highest ground. The town floods, folks ain't got anywhere else to go."

"Town? I only saw a bunch of houses." Dean felt his neck prickle. If George didn't just spit out what the hell was going on, Dean was going to shake the living shit right out of him. "What about the camp, it's on high ground?"

"Well, yeah." Gene nodded. "About fifteen families live here in this hollow. Church sits on ground higher than the camp."

Hollow? Jesus Fucking Christ, where the hell had Sam left him?

"Wait, just wait." Dean paused, cup of black coffee in his hand. Uh, yeah, Dean, you dumbass, you just left the _flooded _parking lot of the campground. "Start over Gene." he turned to Will, eyebrow cocked as he waited for an explanation.

"The town and the Scout campground are between the river that feeds the lake and the stream that runs from the lake." Will explained. "We'll radio Rob and have him bring the kids right to the church."

"Where you could be flooded from two sides." Dean pointed out sarcastically.

"Still the safest place." Will said firmly. "It's the highest ground." he repeated. "The Sheriff's department will come out in boats to get folks, we'll be fine."

"What is everyone doing over at the church?" Dean asked. They'd told him but he couldn't remember. "The town hasn't flooded yet."

"Everyone's over filling sand bags." Gene said. "Usually, we're well warned of any potential flooding and the National Guard comes out to do what's needed to protect the town."

Dean walked with and Gene, who pulled the wagon, down the street, around the corner, and up a hill, that though not steep, had a steady incline that left him breathless. Will followed in the Gator, now loaded with boxes of donuts and pre-packaged snack cakes and cookies. The river, maybe two-car lengths wide, probably had a normal flow that would be considered gentle,

Not now.

While the river didn't exactly rage, it was swift, the current strong with the occasional white cap and littered with trash, tree limbs and debris. Oh yeah, she was at her banks, all right. In fact, the traffic bridge was under water, only the rails remained visible. No one would be driving across it. Dean eyed the foot-bridge, its arch was higher than the traffic bridge, and though still crossable, the water was already across the boards. And the rain still fell, and the ground, already saturated, had nowhere for more water to go. Yeah, the force of that current could well be detrimental to any sandbag retaining wall the local residents managed to erect.

Really? Another bridge under water? Another flooded river? Stranded in the woods? During a storm? Again? Really? _Really_?

The other side of the river had already flooded. No land was visible as far as he could see. He reached into his pocket for his cell to call Sam. Yeah, sure, he'd left it in the tent. Was there even cell service up here? No biggee, he'd deliver the wagon, help unload the Gator then return to the camp and be right where Sam had left him when Sam finally returned. He relieved Gene the burden of the wagon so he could use his arm to steady his way across the bridge. Will waited until they were across, judged the water and drove right through. The Gator bogged about but trudged onward and emerged on the other side. It wouldn't be doing so again.

Yup, easy-peasy, that was his plan. Well, it was until they finally topped the hill and rounded the church to greet the worst assembled assembly line Dean had ever seen in his life. Not that he'd ever come across a sand-bag assembly line before, but even so, talk about disorganization.

A for effort. D for execution. F for accomplishment.

Everyone, and he guessed there was about twenty people, was doing their own bag. Some filled their bag completely, others over filled, others didn't fill enough; some were carried and stacked, others were left where they were filled. Yeah, their intent was good but their execution was deplorable. At this rate, they'd all drown before they'd made a wall higher than ankle-deep. No one appeared in charge, no one gave orders or designated duties or executed a plan. No progress was being made, nothing was being accomplished and though unseen to the untrained eye, water edged higher by the moment though it had yet to reach the church yard.

"National Guard, huh?" Dean commented wryly, surveying the busy, disorganized activity. "No one has ever filled a sandbag before, have they?" or lifted and carried and stacked one. Or made a wall.

"Folks don't give up around here." Gene said proudly.

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it. Don't. Do. It. Do. Not. Do. It.

He did it.

"Get everyone up here now." Dean ordered. The cluster of houses was closest to the river and would be the first to flood, should – when – the river spilled over its banks. "Everyone Gene, man, woman, child, infant. Hell, bring the family dog if that's what it takes to get people out of their house." he clapped his hands then stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle to get everyone's attention. "That's it, listen up." he shouted. "Granmas and anyone with bad health go to the hall and set up cots and blankets and tables. Put food out, I'm hungry. Take anyone under the age of three with you. Kids, ages four to sixteen, to the sand pile. Women, grab a bag, find scissors or a knife and start cutting lengths of twine to tie the bags closed. Men….ALL MEN...follow me."

Yup, a born leader, an experienced planner, used to giving orders, able to judge any situation or disaster and take control, adept at being in command; that was how Dean Winchester became the organizer and leader of the whatever-town sandbag assembly line and wall erector.

***000***

They were working against Mother Nature herself, and as with Dean's prior experience with the temperamental force, she wasn't willing to give anyone a break. The rain didn't slacken, the wind remained strong and cold, the river, unseen but known just the same, continued to rise, its current grew stronger, and while there was no shortage of bags (Dean had no idea where the supply had come from, the MIA National Guard, he assumed) or sand – now wet and clumpy – people began to tire. Himself included. No one complained about the pace Dean set and kept, but exhaustion took a toll and he finally allowed people to take ten-minute breaks, three people at a time. The townsfolk might not like it, but even if they didn't realize they were in a race against time, Dean did.

"Where's your buddy?" a man who had worked side-by-side with Dean for hours, asked Gene.

"He was feeling a mite flimsy." Will answered. "Went inside to get some water and sit down for a spell."

"Lawman, he said?"

"Reckon so, knows his way around." Will agreed, he really didn't know all that much about the brothers who had appeared in the middle of the night seeking refuge from the weather and bad luck on the roads. He knew one thing, though, he was damn glad Dean had taken charge. "Got injured on the job, slow recovery."

Flimsy? Dean chuckled wearily as he completed a walk around the church, inspecting the waist-high wall; the tight, well-packed sturdy wall that would hopefully succeed in keeping the water from engulfing the church should the river flood completely and the water get high enough to reach them. He mounted the steps of the church. The women and youngest children had retreated to the attached hall so the church was peacefully quiet. The men continued to work outside, Gene included, but Dean either had to take a break or he was going to pass out. There were some things a human body just couldn't do. Endurance was one thing that was marked with a limit. Much as Dean wanted to charge on, keeping bending and lifting, filling and heaving, stacking and packing, his mind, his muscles, his aching head said: no more.

"Thanks." he said distractedly, accepting a towel from someone, a cup of something liquid from someone else and heading to the back of the church to peer out the window, wanting to see if the Scout camp was visible in the distance.

It wasn't.

"Where the hell are you Sammy?" he walked through the door to the hall, where cots had been set up earlier. For the amount of kids and dogs and the occasional cat, running amuck, all was pretty well contained. There weren't enough cots for everyone, they'd be occupied by the elderly and the women. Kids would use sleeping bags on the floor and there were enough blankets for the men who would use the pews in the church. Not ideal, but warm and dry and, for now, safe.

So far, the electricity remained, but cell towers weren't sending out signals and phone lines were down. A couple of the men were talking about attempting to cross the bridge back to the gas station to see if the CB was operational. Walki-talkies had gone silent and Will was no longer able to radio Rob. So great, cut off from the outside world. Yay!

Not to worry, Will insisted. The local Sheriff knew the Scout camp was active and it wouldn't be long before help started to arrive. Heck, rescue crews probably already had, at the camp anyway. Okay, whew. Dean thought, head throbbing, pounding, pulsating. Mmmm…maybe a short nap. No, something to eat. Something more substantial than donuts and coffee. Someone had said a sandwich had been set aside for him…..he should go see about….

The earth shook.

Dean paused, shaking his head. Wow, okay, yeah, he'd been inactive for a couple of weeks, hadn't been eating good, had allowed Sam to pamper and simper and…..

The very floor beneath his feet shook.

Every tree, every bush, every sodden flower quivered as the ground beneath the church heaved and shifted. The windows rattled and the entire building vibrated as though someone had picked the structure up and shook it, like manhandling a snow globe.

Vrrr…vrrrvrrrvrr…Vrrr. VaaRRoomMM..BOOM!

Dean grabbed the back of a pew to keep his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. Whether from exhaustion or the earth literally moving under his feet, he didn't know. Not that it mattered, his body already weak and tired, offered no fight when his knees buckled and dumped him to all fours.

"AVALANCE!"

Came the cries all around him. The word finally penetrated his brain and it encouraged him to react. His mind, agreeing for once to work with his brain without an argument, whirled and spun before skidding to an abrupt halt; it picked up noises and voices and sounds, spit out the ones it didn't agree with, and ignored the words he knew were wrong.

Get down, get under. Get down, get under, get with it. Come on Dean, standing around like you don't know what to do is either going to get you injured or killed. Avalanche? Really? Again? God, not again. Wasn't being caught in one enough in mans a life time? Still on all fours, he crawled to the nearest wall, lowered himself to his belly and slithered underneath a pew.

His mind vehemently protested. Oh now, wait a minute! Hold on! Avalanche? No way, not here, not now, not in this weather….well, not snow anyway. But mud…?

"Mudslide?" Dean popped out from under the pew, gained his feet and rushed outside, exhaustion and aching head forgotten. The mudslide was to their right, between the church and, a good mile or better away, the Scout camp. He had no way of knowing if Sam and the troop had reached it and if they had, if it remained safe.

The hill he'd climbed earlier hadn't appeared steep, but it was higher than he'd thought, and the church and the hall were still, for the time being, safe. But mud and water oozed sluggishly, steadily creeping towards their protective wall. Down at the bottom of the hill, barely visible through the rain, the gloomy dusk, and the settling cloud of dust - despite the rain - from the destructive mudslide, where once stood a cluster of houses, was an ocean of mud.

No sign of either bridge remained and he couldn't see across the river to see if the gas station/mini-mart still stood.

"Fuck!" he was going to have to get a closer look. His pocket flashlight was woefully inadequate for the doom and gloom surrounding him from the impending twilight. He didn't know what happened when raging, flooded river met great wall of mud, but knew it couldn't be good. And people, faced with a disaster, accepted reality much better when the knowledge they had a house to return to remained. But now, oh now, those same folks, sane just ten minutes ago, would panic and freak.

"Anyone hurt?"

"Anyone missing?"

Dean heard the people rallying from within the church. The earth was now still, the initial panic was over and the human nature to survive pushed to the forefront. He jogged around the circled wall, looking for breaches or breaks but the wall remained unbroken. He was no engineer or expert, like a geologist or whoever, but the hill behind the church appeared stable, but again, what the hell did he know?

Rescuers would have to come by air. No way was anyone getting in or out by boat or vehicle. It would be earth-movers who made any progress toward them via land.

"Don't go thinking they're gonna lift me off the ground in some sling or basket Sammy." Dean grinned, rubbing the back of his head. "Never gonna happen."

At least they were all safe and sound at the church. Well, again, for the time being anyway. Gene and Will had rounded everyone up earlier, following Dean's order to get everyone out of their houses and the towns people had claimed everyone had been present or otherwise accounted for, so no one was buried under all that mud. And it was a lot of mud. Yeah, it was hard to see, but not a light remained where any house or building had previously stood.

If it turned out someone was missing and he had to go digging through all that mud in search of Great Uncle Bob or funny Cousin Sue, he was going to seriously hurt someone. Dean leaned over the wall of bags and shined his flashlight down…..so far, so good-ish. Before he had time to ponder the implication of how fast the water might reach their makeshift retaining wall, screams sounded from within the church, joined by a chorus of barking dogs and a choir of meowing cats.

"Jamie's gone!"

Dean sighed, pushing all thoughts of how to quickly reunite with Sam and the slowly but steadily encroaching water from his mind. Who the fuck was Jamie?

Jamie, he soon learned, was a seven-year old brat, ehrm, boy who, unable to locate his dog, had broken through the wall of sandbags and lit out for home. Cursing women's inability to mind their children and properly train their pets, Dean easily vaulted over the wall and began to run down the hill, shouting at the men to repair the wall where Jamie had broken through, pronto!

Jamie, distraught and too young to know any better, was disoriented and had no idea which way his house was – well, had been. So, he did what kids do – ran downhill. And with a dog-rescuing mission consuming his mind, nothing and no one was going to stop him.

Tired as he was, head doing its best to send him to his knees, encumbered by heavy boots, Dean finally ran the little bast...bugger down. Struggling to run through flood waters that tugged at his ankles, Jamie was caught in the field of mud debris just before the river. Dean pissed off and annoyed, didn't hesitate or take care to be gentle, he grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck and swung him off his feet.

"You kick me and I'll hang you upside down." Dean warned. He was intent on returning to the relative safety of the sandbag protected church as quickly as possible. The river, temporarily diverted by the mud, did what water always did – found the path of least resistance. Mud sucked at his feet, pulled him forward, threatened to upend his balance. The water, now finding its way around and over and through the mud, made thick quagmire. The current and flow was rebounding and they were too close to the edge of the swift current for Dean's comfort.

"Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!" the slippery kid was stronger than Dean had anticipated and fought for his freedom, for the life of his dog. "Bernard?! Bernie! BERNIE!"

"Here now! Dean, have a care!" Gene was yelling, leading the charge towards him. "He's just a boy, he didn't mean any harm!"

Dean heard the shouts of the men who followed him, calling out to Jamie. A dog barked. Thunder rumbled overhead. A woman's screams were heard above it all in the distance. Dean had neither the strength nor the stamina to dangle the kid by one hand and pulled him close, holding him with both arms. The kids panicked crying rose to screams and he didn't cease trying to get free.

They boy wanted down, wanted his dog, wanted free of the man he didn't know. He was oblivious to the dangers the water and mud presented and seeing Gene, strained from the grasp of the man's arms he didn't know, to the arms of the man he did. Relieved a catastrophe had been adverted, if only for the time being, and distracted by Gene all up in his face, Dean didn't pay as much attention to the squirming child as he should have. His mind was on the mud, the weather, the river. The slide, now over, was still a threat. The mud had forced the river in a new direction and its waters, mixed with the mud, pushed uphill and towards the church.

"Hold still!" Dean muttered, struggling to keep his feet, realizing too late he'd underestimated the kid's determination to reach his dog and they were further away from safe ground than he'd thought. Christ, the mud was moving swiftly, pushing them further from the shore. God he was tired, his arms shook...his muscles screamed...if he fell in the muck...if his head went under...Grunting, he assumed the ten-pound mound of moving mud nipping at his heels was the presumed missing Bernard. He swept the dog out of the water by the scruff of its neck and into the arms of its young master.

"Dammit kid!" he ducked to avoid a head-butt, feeling himself dragged deeper into the muck. His four limbs were splayed; his feet searched for solid ground, his left arm strained to find a hold, his right arm cramped with the weight of a squirming, kicking kid. "Fuck!"

It wasn't water, it wasn't mud. He couldn't swim, he couldn't walk. It might as well have been quicksand. He slipped, he slid, he went down on one knee, and he failed to find a secure two-foot hold. One of the men tossed him a rope. He caught it one-handed, slid the loop over his head, and worked one arm through. It gave him no support but at least the men on firmer ground could begin pulling them out of the muck.

The mud now at his crotch, Dean found purchase with his right foot and braced his weight. The muck resisted, fighting back, it got thicker and deeper with every passing second. The water was surging, overwhelming the mud, and the muck was soon up to his waist, the water deeper, stronger, faster. The steady pull on the rope cut into his skin, did its best to sever his arm from his shoulder but pulled him closer, inch by agonizing inch, to safety.

Dean, no longer able to tolerate the yipping in his ear, sent the dog airborne, depending on the men on shore to catch it. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, digging deep for strength, relying on stamina instilled in him as a youth, Dean heaved Jamie towards the outstretched arms reaching for the boy. He was relieved of Jamie's weight just as a surge of water swept him away from the hands of the men now reaching to grasp him. No longer encumbered by the burden of the squirming, kicking boy, Dean was able to fight/swim/walk back towards the shore.

But he was tired. Muscles, after several weeks of inactivity, screamed in resistance to the continued fight he asked from them. He pushed on, but his body was weak, his head exploded and his grit and determination deserted him. His finger-tips brushed the hand grasping for him, their hands touched, he felt the secure grip on his wrist, and he gave in, allowing the strength of others to do for him what he couldn't – pull him to safety. Still, he might have made it if another surge of water hadn't broken through, overwhelming the sea of mud and completely submerging him. Tired, weak, spent, having relaxed, he was no match for the strength of the current and the last thing he felt/remembered was the skin of his armpit shredding under the violent resistance of the rope to the water.


	6. Chapter 6

If Sam ever entertained the notion he'd like to raise a kid someday, well, all he had to do to cure himself of that insanity was hire on as a camp counselor. He'd rather _talk_ a demon out of its host then break camp, round up and herd thirteen pre-teen boys. Getting them to obey and all going the same direction at the same time at a quick pace without inciting panic was a talent Sam found he lacked – and hoped to never acquire. Nothing could be worse…..Oh God – he shuddered in horror as a thought occurred to him – **it** could be worse, _they could be girls!_

He cursed as he pulled stakes from the ground to collapse the tent. Why again, did they need to take the tents with them? Oh right, teaching kids about responsibility. Yeah, did that really matter when you know, a flood was about to overtake them?

He pulled up another stake and untied the rope. Some of the boys in the group were troopers, most were complainers, and a few were whiners. Two, apparently joined at the hip, for they were never apart, asked non-stop questions that had absolutely nothing to do with hiking or camping and all Sam could envision doing was holding his hand over their mouths until their ability to talk was no longer an ability they possessed. Some were athletic and knowledgeable; others couldn't tie a simple knot. Most were scared, others bold, one or two practically had to be led by the hand.

And then there was Billy.

'I can't, I won't, you can't make me, no, how come, why, my mom says, I'm cold, it's dark, I'm tired, carry me, I'm wet, I'm dirty, it's muddy, it's raining, I'm not going, my dad's bigger than you (really kid?), the path is shorter, the roads too dark (and the path is lit by what?), yadda, yadda, yadda until Sam was sorely tempted to stuff the kid into one of the large bags and wait until they reached camp to find out whether or not he'd smothered.

There'd been two counselors with the boys camping at the lake, one an adult, the other a teen-ager who thought he knew _everything_ and really, knew nothing. At first, he'd tried to tell Sam what to do, how to do it and why it should be done that way but after Sam pulled the first stake from the ground with one bare hand, he'd wisely retreated without another word. So, that made three adults – Sam, with no patience; Rob, with too much patience; Don, with no sense of urgency, and a know-it-all 17-year-old.

Finally, finally they were on their way. Don and Mr. I-know-everything led the way, and Sam and Rob brought up the rear. Sam, unhappy with the look of the sky and the weather as he trudged on, seriously doubted his sanity. What the hell had possessed him…..no, no, no….bad thoughts Sam, bad, very bad! What the hell had he been thinking….yes, that was better…agreeing to walk down to the camp when Rob had invited him along? Sam snorted, slipping in the mud as he stooped to scoop up one kid or another and set him back on his feet.

Space and separation – a break – from Dean, _that_ had been his motivation.

Had it only been a day, maybe two that Sam had vowed not to let his brother out of his sight? Yeah, sure, uh-huh, that had lasted. After their words the previous night, Sam had decided spending a few hours apart was the wise thing to do. He'd been reluctant to leave, yet eager too. He'd been cooped up too long and needed an outlet. It was just, it had taken longer than he'd thought to break camp and round up the troop, and now he'd been away from the camp longer than he'd ever planned to be when he'd left that morning.

Stupid he was not. Dean would get bored and when bored, Dean explored and when Dean explored, he found trouble: Always. And oh, he'd better be right where Sam had left him when Sam got back or so help him, Dean would regret ever…...

"It's been raining for a long time. I don't like it. Make it stop. I want it to go away."

Billy again.

"Why's it raining so hard? How come the wind doesn't stop? Do you think it's because of global warming? Melting of the icebergs? Launching rockets into space?"

And right on cue, the twins of chatter.

Sam picked up his pace. Man, it was like cats. Cats always weaved around the ankles of the person who didn't like them. He sighed, the trio were right on his heels, Billy on one side, the twins on the other. Oh, Dean was soooooo going to pay for this. He thought Sam had been difficult last night? Ha! Just wait.

"Are we there yet? How much further? I want to go home. Can we go home? Can I call my mom?"

"_Can_ we leave? Don't you think this is a lot of rain?"

It wasn't that Sam disliked kids, he was quite fond of them, when he wasn't responsible for their well-being; when he wasn't anxious to return to his brother; when he wasn't mad at himself for leaving his brother alone in the first place; when he wasn't sick to his stomach wondering what mischief his brother had found to get in to; when Dean hadn't been laid low for several weeks with a head injury; when…

"Hey mister, you're walking too fast. Can you carry this? You in a hurry? You got anything to eat? I'm hungry? What….?"

Sam was going to reach camp, load up, pack Dean into the backseat of the car and go home. Flooded roads and structurally damaged bridges be damned. He trusted the Impala to plow through hell itself if it meant getting her…..what the fuck was that?

"Hold up!" Sam stopped and held a hand up. "What's that?"

The earth shook. Every tree, every bush, every sodden flower quivered as the ground beneath their feet heaved and shifted.

Vrrr…vrrrvrrrvrr…Vrrr. VaaRRoomMM..BOOM!

They heard it, but they couldn't see it.

"Mudslide!" Rob cried. What to do? Where to go? Run? Run where? Climb a tree? Boy Scout's Guide to Camping had never prepared him what to do in case of a mudslide! It was in the distance, off to their left and out of sight but they knew what it was, just the same. The camp was on high ground – not that that at all guaranteed safety – but depending on how wide the slide was…..would they meet the mud on its way down as they continued to climb the hill?

"The camp?" Sam demanded, heart thudding, fear thick in his throat…Dean! "You think it's safe?" all instincts, all emotions, head and heart urged him to abandon the boys and run pell-mell to the camp with all the haste his long legs were capable of.

"Highest ground around, though that doesn't mean anything." Rob admitted.

"Wouldn't we see the mud? I mean, how do we know it's not coming this way?" the teen-ager asked nervously, clinging to a tree as the ground beneath their feet gradually ceased shaking.

"We don't." Rob said grimly. The earth finally settled but emitted an eerie unstable vibe. "The town though….it's that way," he pointed left, "right on the river's edge."

"But Will said the church was the shelter." Sam reminded him. "Wait, town? I thought it was just houses with a gas station."

"Yeah, a shelter from a flooding river, not a mountain of mud." Rob pointed out. "And official town or not, people still live there." he shrugged, hands on his hips. "There's a mile or so, maybe two, between us and the church….."

"Everything sounded and felt like it came from the left….the church is on the same side of the river as us and the town but we don't know where the mudslide was." the other counselor said. "I say we go forward. The mud, however much of it there is, is gonna come to a stop when it reaches the river and it doesn't appear it's coming this way."

"But the folks in town..." Rob began but he fell silent at the shaking of the other man's head. "No, you're right, these kids are our responsibility and they come first. Once we reach the camp, we can settle the boys then take the Gator down to the mini-mart, see what's going on."

"If the camp's still there." boy-toy added.

Sam didn't wait to hear more, he took off at an all-out run up the hill. He had to reach the camp, had to find his brother, had to know Dean was there, where he'd been left with strict instructions to remain – had to know he _was OK_! Some part of his mind, the part still able to think rationally, told him the camp remained unscathed from the mudslide, after all, Cas had sent them there! It lay directly ahead of him atop the road and no mud had come down but still…that part of his brain that was wired to worry and fret and fuss and obsess over the only reason in his life he had to….Oh God, please let him be all tucked up in his sleeping bag on his cot in the tent he so obviously hated.

_Please._

***000***

'Tie off that rope!' 'Pull!' 'Hold tight!' 'Paul, you anchor!' 'Count of three!' 'Haul!' 'Put your ass into it!' 'Don't lose him!'

Right, please, oh please, don't lose me! Dean distantly heard the garbled, shouted orders as the men still on firm ground scrambled to secure the rope before the force of the current could rip it from their hands. The water had completely overtaken the mud and the river raced on its way, tugging, pulling, resisting, and fighting the efforts to pull Dean from its murky depths, reluctant to give up its prize.

Swim, he could swim. What were you suppose to do when caught in a riptide? Swim sideways? Yeah, not gonna happen. Okay, so, swimming – strike one. Tread water! Was he in water? He was! 'Cause he smelled and tasted foul water. Huh, so he was right! This is exactly what swamp water tasted like! But…..strike two, for his legs didn't want to move – make that, wouldn't, couldn't move. Could he stand? No. Alright, sit and wait for rescue. No - strike three, because his lungs were compressed against his chest or ribs or whatever internal muscle or organ they were currently being mashed into and yeah…..breathe, he couldn't! Air, he needed air…..don't panic Dean, don't panic. Thrashing will only sink you deeper…..do not panic.

He panicked.

* * *

Gene grabbed Jamie's hand and ran like hell for the church, dragging the dog-clutching kid behind him. He bellowed for blankets and warm water and bandages, cried out to anyone and everyone to make all necessary preparations needed to treat an injured man. He demanded hot coffee, asked for hot soup, begged for an area for privacy.

"Hurry!" Gene urged. "Hurry! Don't just stand there staring at me! Move! Do something!"

"Now Gene, calm down." Fred, an older gentlemen shuffled forward, wiping his hands on a towel. "Here now, calm yourself. Can't make heads nor tails what you're saying. You're babbling on worse than Jamie here. I say there Pete, move a bag or two and let them in. Bernard." he patted the matted head of the still yapping dog. "See all the trouble you caused, you bag of fleas? Now shush up you!"

"Dean fell in the river!" Gene gasped as Jamie, nodding, launched into verbal diarrhea relating the incident, often over-riding Gene's attempt to stress the importance of the story. "We're wasting time! They'll be up with him any second!"

"Dean?" Fred repeated, quirking an eyebrow in disbelief. "Fell? Into the river you say?" Pete shook his head in agreement of Fred's disbelief.

"Yes! No! I mean….he fell _in_ it, not _into_ it!"

"Now, really Gene, what's the difference? No matter, I just don't see the likelihood of that happening." Fred continued, plucking Bernard from Jamie's arms and rubbing the dog vigorously with a towel. "Really now, Dean is most capable of handling himself in any situation. He wouldn't go in the river…"

"He went in after Jamie!" Gene shouted, hopping in agitation. "They got him on a rope but a wave of water came, and the mud…..it pushed the current and river changed course and...HE'S IN THE RIVER!"

"Eh? What's that? He fell in the river? Well, why didn't you say so?!" Bernard was set down and forgotten as a flurry of activity blew up. "Folks! We got us a situation!" Fred bellowed. "Man down!" good God, was it a drowning? Buried alive? Lack of oxygen? "Where are those blankets? Anyone making coffee? Move it people! Someone build a fire! Get it going now!" he scurried to rouse people into action. "Break that wall! They're gonna be carrying him through. Don't just stand there gaping at me! MOVE!"

Fred's ample belly prevented him from fast movement, but his short pudgy legs put to shame those around him who were younger and more agile. He upended the first cot he came to in the hall without thought or care, dumping its contents to the floor, reclaimed the pillow and dragged it into the church. Gene was on his ass with blankets and towels which he dropped in a heap and ran off to fulfill Fred's demand for buckets of water.

Dean had set them all safely behind a well-built wall that could very well prove to be the only reason anyone made it out of this flooding, mud-sliding mountain nightmare alive. Dean was the _only_ reason the sand-bag wall had been erected, completed in time and made a sturdy circle around the church and its attached hall. Dean was the reason people hadn't panicked, had worked fluently together and made the shelter a safe and calm place. Dean had kept the mood light, spirits up and attitudes in check.

He hadn't hesitated chasing after Jamie, the young fool; hadn't stopped to consider the risk to himself by plunging into unstable mud and an unpredictable river to save a dog. And if it hadn't been for him, folks would have still been in their houses and been buried under all that mud.

Dead.

They owed him and, by God, with the grace of good will and gratitude, they'd take care of him now that he needed their help.

* * *

It took the strength of three men, the rope – that turned out to be Dean's saving grace – tied off to a tree and Will shouting orders and encouragement, to convince the mud to give up its captive. Hands grabbed at his shirt which tore under the strain so they grabbed whatever they could get ahold of; his neck, an arm, a foot, skin, his belt, hell even his hair. He was dragged, hauled, rolled, heaved, pulled and, finally on solid ground, laid on his back. Concerned, panicked voices swam around and over his head, wafted in and out of his understanding.

"Anyone got a pulse? Is there a heartbeat? He breathing? Anyone know CPR? Whoa, careful now! Be careful! Don't hurt him! Watch it!"

Hey, here now, yeah, I got a pulse, my hearts beating, if a little fast and I'm breathing just fine, thank you very much! No, CPR not needed and no, no mouth-to-mouth required!

Fingers, not lips, touched his, invaded his mouth, went up his nose, swiped at his eyes, dug in his ears; he was told to cough, to spit, he blew bubbles, unable to draw a deep breath. Hands thumped his chest. His head bobbed on his neck, he was sitting up, his back was pounded, and he was hugged from behind, hands fisted under his ribcage, right at his belly – aah, the Heimlich? Oh no...then what...Ow! Oh, he coughed all right, and choked and spit and spewed. Holy-Moly, what the fuck had he'd swallowed?! Eeww…gross, slime on his chin was wiped away with a cold hand.

"Dean? DEAN! You ok? You awake? Say something! Open your eyes! Talk to me! Come on, man!"

The orders came at him left and right; flew at him, not once waiting for an answer or a reaction. Great, rescued by a group of well-wishers and do-gooders with no idea what to do now that they rescued him; they really needed to stop pounding on his back and punching him in the belly.

He tried to tell them he was awake, tried to open his eyes, tried to raise a hand, tried to return the squeeze he felt when his hand was held…..nothing. Maybe he wasn't awake. Maybe he was asleep or unconscious. Hell he could even be dead, he didn't know. No, he knew. He was in too much pain to be unconscious. Both his leg and his shoulder were on fire!

"Dean? Can you hear me? Dean?"

He was cold and wet and sticky and smelled and every limb and finger and toe he had was heavy, too heavy to move. They were weighted down, dragging at him, pulling him deeper, deeper….he choked, struggling to get up, sputtering and spitting out water and mud and mold. Hands reached to aid him, supporting him while he attempted to eject the other half of the river he hadn't yet spit up.

His body was wracked with shudders, his chest heaved, he wheezed and his breath rattled in his throat as he gulped. More hands guided him, turning him to his side and laying him down, touch gentle yet firm. His mouth was invaded - again; fingers fought his tongue and poked at the back of his mouth, causing him to retch. He vomited violently, hands holding his shoulders, distant voices offering words of encouragement.

"Any injures? He hurt? Dean, you hurt? Anyone see? What we got?"

Finally, panting for his breath and before he could catch it, stomach muscles unable to eject anything more, he was lifted, jostled, juggled and carried. Will – at least, he thought it was Will, the blurry wavering image was slightly familiar – patted his cheek, thumbing open one eye then the other, palming mud from his forehead when his hair relinquished its hold on the slimy mess. Rain pelted his face, he felt it, but he couldn't see it. He couldn't hear, couldn't smell. Well, no, not true, he could smell moldy muck.

His head ached. He really wished it didn't; Sam was going to throw an epic fit.

His leg, right leg, burned and throbbed and _burned_. He really wished it would stop; Sam would clap his hands in glee over being able to do more of the driving.

His shoulder, the left, hell his left side, burned and itched and stung and _burned_. He really wished he knew why; Sam would be all up in his face and hire himself out as a human crutch.

Everything was hazy. Activity continued to whirl around him but he couldn't place the people or the events or where he was; he was detached, floating, lost, unanchored. Really, he felt like he should be doing something. What, he didn't know, but something. Yelling, issuing orders, taking charge, opening his eyes, answering questions, or asking them, he didn't know, couldn't think….

He groaned as he was roughly jostled, cried out when he was bumped and thumped around as the men carrying him strived for a firmer grip. A hand touched his right foot and that was it. His last sense, his hearing, deserted him. He could no longer make out words or voices. Every sound was muted, what he could hear – feel? – was garbled, came at him in slow motion. His head lolled, his eyes rolled and Will cursed, shouting for everyone to hurry!

He slowly gained awareness, still unable to see, that had happened before but he'd been with Sam then and….oooommmpphh. He was rudely dropped and laid on his back. Before he could really comprehend why or where, he was being undressed, petted and pawed. Many hands reached out, lifted and held, tugged and pulled, pushed and rolled.

Ow, vocal protest, couldn't lie on his left side, his shoulder wasn't having it. Ow, vocal protest, couldn't lie on his right side, leg threw a fit.

"Sssh, you're ok. Hurts, I know." he was shushed. "Just a bit of discomfort. Easy does it." his head was lifted and laid back down on something soft and supportive. He tried to see what was going on, but everything was brown and blurry. He raised a hand to wipe at his face but it was caught, his fingers squeezed then pushed to his side. "He's pretty touchy about his right leg." and then they ignored him.

He lay helpless, trapped between awareness and unconsciousness, a state he couldn't break through. Huh, would he remember any of this? Did he want to? Probably not. His shirt, his boots, and his socks were removed, tender care being administered with his right leg. Sam was never so gentle. He was always, hurry up and see the extent of any and all injuries. Aww man not his belt, leave a man his dignity! Wow, yeah, guess not.….yikes! He stirred in protest as his jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped and pulled. Oh, hey! Watch it!

Before he could do more than growl, or you know, separate hand from wrist wielding what felt like a sponge, he was lifted and rolled and held then rolled the other way. Careful, watch the shoulder, watch the leg, watch _me_! Aah-oooh, warm water, yes, that felt so good! Stay away from the left arm and shoulder, not ready for that yet. Oh, thrills, back to his jeans – going lower. He didn't care if they and his boxer briefs were removed. Indeed, it would feel great to be out of the wet, heavy denim but….to come off, all the way off, they had to come off his lower hips, go on down over his thighs and his knees then his shins and really, his right leg was screaming…...or was that him?

"Okay, okay, okay! Sssh...shush, you're ok. Easy, easy does it. Sssh. I got ya, I hear ya. I'll leave 'em be for now." Fred had taken charge. "Chest. Arm. Shoulder. Haven't got a look at that leg yet. Where's that first aid kit? We need bandages! More water!" what the hell was he going to find under the jeans he'd left at Dean's knees, beneath all that mud, that had caused such a reaction? He didn't like it, didn't like it all.

And then – his patient began to shiver.

Dean heard the previously calm voice, notch up an octave in alarm. Apparently, he shook and trembled so violently, whoever was bathing, scrubbing and washing him thought he was having a seizure. Maybe he was, because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop.

More movement, frantic activity, a flurry of motion, different voices. His faced was bathed repeatedly with a soft cloth and warm water and his vision was improving. No stiff, scratchy sponge for his cheeks, and thankful for it, he was, for his face stung like a bad sunburn.

His heart galloped, ran amuck, thudded, seized, stole his breath and galloped some more. Ow. Man, it hurt to breathe, hurt to swallow, hurt to lick his lips, hurt to move his tongue. Pant, lick, bite. Pant, lick, bite. Pant, lick, bite. Pant, pant, pant….gasp, pant, pant, pant.

What was wrong with him? Had he eaten mud? How much water had he swallowed? Was there muck still in his lungs? Had his brain been deprived of oxygen? If so, for how long? He wanted a drink, how was he supposed to make them understand he wanted something to drink? And who the hell were they anyway? Whoever they were, they needed to learn to speak complete sentences, 'cause he only understood every other word or so.

'get him clean' 'all of him' 'disease' 'bacteria' 'infection' 'bleeding' 'drowning' 'he's hurting' 'watch his arm' 'don't move his leg' 'gotta get those pants off' 'more clean water'

Who were they talking about? Him? He frowned. Hadn't that happened to him before? The loss of ability to hear complete sentences? Just recently? With…with, with what's her name? Another frown, what _was_ her name? Did it matter? But oh, who cared? He was cold, so cold he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. And he hurt…everywhere! Mostly his arm, no his shoulder, no his chest, no, where they all met – yes, his armpit, but….um, ow, his leg wasn't feeling too good either. He still shivered and shook and trembled and panted and squirmed and gasped and oh-oh, he was going to be sick, wanted to roll over, tried, couldn't. He gagged. On bile, on spit, from pain.

"Easy. Easy." he was sat up, his head gently held over a pail until he was done attempting to heave his belly button up to greet his tongue. "Quickly now." Fred said to someone, rubbing Dean's head with a towel, wiping his ears. "We need to get him warm. We'll worry about mud between his toes later."

Ok, okay, whew! Well, alrighty then, all was good. He was no longer submerged underwater in stinky mud. Wouldn't hurt to rest for a bit, just for a little while, would it? He was in good hands, being taken care of, and if all they were worried about were his dirty toes, there, wasn't a thing for him to do except sleep. Let go Dean, just let go….nothing for you to do…..

"How's he doing?" Will and Gene shooed everyone else away from the cot, set up in the corner of the church, not the hall, for privacy. "Coffee?"

"In a minute." Fred said. "Need to finish up here first. He hasn't really come around yet and we haven't gotten him outta his pants to get a good look at the rest of him." Fred slid a hand under Dean's head and supported its weight while he held a cup to his lips. "Thirsty there son? Mmm? Take a drink, that's it."

"Gotta treat that rope burn. Shredded his skin, flayed it." Gene said. "Why's he shaking? Should he be shaking? He shouldn't be shaking. Make him stop shaking."

Yeah, no shit, thought Fred. "Trying Gene. Gotta warm him up, but gotta get these pants off him first. He's not happy about his leg being touch, need to find out why."

"You sure it's his leg he's fussing over and not, you know, being naked?" Gene asked. "No man wants…"

"I'm sure." Fred said firmly, but he laid a blanket over Dean anyway. "God knows what was in that water."

"What we looking at? Gotta take care of that nasty rope burn there. Here, we'll help." Gene said. "Grap a leg Will, count of three, pull."

"NO!" Fred yelped. "DON'T DO THAT!"

"AAUGGHRRHHH!" Dean jerked, hands flailing, legs kicking as his head came off the pillow and he bucked against the pull of denim dragging on his skin.

"Oh shit." Fred muttered, staring in horror at the object – wood? metal? rock? _bone?_ - protruding from Dean's right shin, closer to his ankle than his knee. "Aww, hell." he slowly stood up, uttering curses, sighing in relief when Dean went limp.

What the hell were they going to do now?

"That can't be good." Gene breathed. "That's gotta hurt but he's gonna be ok, right? We got him in time, right? That leg, it's the worst, right? Is it broken? Is that bone? I'm going to be sick."

"I'm a butcher Gene, not a man of medicine." but Fred adjusted his glasses, not that doing so did any good, and scooted his chair closer to the cot and sat back down. "It's not bone."

"Yeah, yeah, but you know all about veins and muscles and tendons." Gene muttered. "That's gotta hurt."

"How do you know? That's a lot of mud and slime and blood, you can't really see." Will asked. "What do you need? You need pain medicine? We have a first aid kit and I'm sure some of the ladies have aspirin or ibuprofen in their purse."

"If his leg were broken, his foot would be dangling." Fred peered closer. Yeah, Dean was going to need something a hell of a lot stronger then aspirin. "Just wonder how deep."

"Pick his leg up and look." Gene suggested. He still held Dean's jeans and he searched for the hole in the leg. "Only one hole, it didn't tear through the back."

"Guess that's good." Fred sighed. "Figure it has to be stuck in there fairly deep or all the jostling getting him out of the mud and carrying him up here would have dislodged it." he wiped his hands on a towel, then surveyed the remaining pile of clean ones. "Need hot water Will, lots of it. More towels, bandages, cotton pads, antiseptic wash, hell, just bring me the entire first aid kit and anything anyone has in way of supplies. This ain't gonna be pretty."

***000***

Sam reached the cabin first, the group lagging far behind. Relieved to find it still standing, he raced past and behind it, charging into the tent he was sharing with his brother. Finding it empty, irrationally looking under both cots and tossing the sleeping bags to the floor, he ran back to the cabin. He didn't knock, just threw the door open. It bounced off the wall with a crack, splintering from its frame from sheer force but no one was there to protest. Terror topping anger, alarm warring with fear, he ran to the kitchen tent, then the latrine tent, then the first aid tent. He checked the car, ran in one direction then another, circling every tent in the camp.

"DEAN! DEAN! DAMMIT, ANSWER ME! DEAN!"

By the time Rob reached camp, the boys and the other two counselors still climbing the hill, Sam had the Asian cook by the neck, against the wall with his wood spoon jabbed against his jugular, demanding he speak English and tell him where the fuck his brother was.

"Sam! Hey, hey Sam! Man, hey!" Rob tugged on Sam's arm holding the spoon. "What are you doing? You can't stab him with the handle of a wood spoon. Now, let him go! Let. Him. Go."

"I want to know where my brother is and he won't' tell me. But he will!" he squeezed and the man squeaked.

"Sam! Calm down, let him go. He doesn't speak any English."

"He'd better learn." Sam threatened. "Make him understand me."

"Just let him go. Soon as the boys get here, Quon can translate. Okay? I'm sure your brother isn't far. Your car's here, right?"

Rob succeeded in convincing Sam to release the cook, but failed to convince him to let the man out of his sight. They stood glaring at one another from opposite sides of a row of tables.

By the time the rest of the troop arrived, Sam was pacing, hands in his hair, muttering dire consequences to a certain wingless angel who had better haul ass to buckfuck, Nebraska, wave a hand, part water and return Dean to the protection and care of Sam, or else.

As soon as the troop gathered in the kitchen tent, the largest, Sam singled out the only Asian boy and dragged him by his sodden tie over to the cook.

"Ask him where my brother is." Sam ordered. He didn't care if he frightened the boy, he wanted answers and he wanted them now. If he had to hang the kid upside down and put a gun to the cook's head, he was capable of doing so.

Quon looked at Rob who spoke more calmly and explained the situation and soon, boy and cook were in animated discussion. Hands waved, heads nodded, arms swung and Sam's patience disappeared completely.

"What is he saying? Where's Dean? Dammit, someone talk to me!"

"Your brother rode with Will to the mini-mart in the motor cart, they haven't returned and Shin hasn't been able to raise them on the two-way radio." Quon said quickly. "No one has come up to the camp from town either.

"Has Shin gone down to see if the town is..." Rob glanced at Sam. "Uh, still there?"

Quon translated the question and Shin shook his head. "No."

Sam bolted for the door, Rob on his heels. He didn't need to ask where the worried younger man was going. Just wondered whether he intended to walk or take his car.

He did neither, he ran.


	7. Chapter 7

He was on a rollercoaster and he wanted off.

A person wasn't meant to hang upside down or go backwards, twisting and turning while suspended in a metal car, attached to a track by some fandangle gidget-gadget, and secured by a questionable flimsy harness while going sixty miles an hour, legs dangling helplessly. Up, down, around. Back, around, up, down. God, it was enough to make him cast up his accounts.

Eh?

He squirmed, stomach threatening rebellion, hollering he wanted off the ride, yelling for it to stop. It didn't, it went faster. Wow, oh wow, the fucking seatbelt held him tight, the g-force so strong, it pinned his head to the seat and he couldn't lift it. But, mmmm, it was the safety harness that was killing him; so tight across his chest, it cut into his arm and made his shoulder ache. **Yow-ow**! Yeah, he didn't like that very much. But oh, oh that was nothing compared to his foot….no his ankle. Wait, no his calf? His shin? Hell, his whole damn leg. Yeah,_ that_ was no mere ow! Was it stuck? Caught on a wire? The force on his shoulder pulled opposite the force on his leg and he was sure he was being drawn and quartered.

Eh?

And he was hot, so hot he could feel the heat. Hot, like the feeling of heat in your face when you opened the oven door, only not his face, his shoulder and his chest, even his leg. In fact, so hot, he could feel the lick of flames against his skin. At first, it felt good and he gravitated towards the source. He'd been so cold and damp and wet that he hadn't been able to stop shivering but no more. Now, now it was too much – too hot – and he began to squirm in an attempt to distant himself from the uncomfortable building heat.

"Count of three. You pull and…"

"You sure that knife is hot enough? How hot should it be? I don't think it's hot enough. You hesitated and now it's cooled off, don't you think you should put it back in the fire?"

"I do that and I'll never get the nerve up again. I'm about to burn a man here Gene."

Eh?

He really needed to stop reading old western paperback novels purchased for a nickel at some book sale. Hot knife? Who had a hot knife? Why? Well, he knew of several reasons a man might have need for a hot knife but none applied to him. Oh, but it was hard to think, hard to concentrate, for he really did feel as though he were being pulled apart and no matter how much he howled and yowled and carried on, nothing distracted him from his misery and pain. Well, no, that was a lie. He could be distracted – by voices and words and the dawning realization over what those words meant.

He felt warm, his skin pricked and tingled, and it wasn't right. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. It was, was as if…...wait, no story book news here...burn a man? Surely, not with a hot knife?

Fred's wrist was caught in a firm grip and twisted, the knife – now, no longer glowing red-hot – forced into an angle to the floor.

"Drop it." Dean rasped, struggling to gain control of his conscious thought and bring understanding to the situation. "You. Are. Not. Burning. My. Skin. With. A. Hot. Blade." he swallowed hard, on fear, on dread, on bile, on river water and mud. "Forget. It."

"Well, hello there." Fred greeted jovially. He set the knife on the stone floor carefully and used the toe of his boot to push it put of sight under the cot, nearly weeping with relief he hadn't had to use it. "Welcome back. Good of you to rejoin us. Though, you weren't really out all that long." the blurred image wavered and hovered over him and Dean let his eyes close, feeling nauseated. "Afraid I ain't much up on first aiding. Though, you want it sliced and diced, cubed and rounded off, I'm your man." he gave Dean a rueful grin. "Sad to say though, I'm the best we got here."

"What happened?" he pushed at his hair, a heavy lump on his forehead, he really needed a haircut. "Argh." he shifted uneasily. "Owww!" slice and dice what? Him? Not gonna happen.

"Now, you just relax and take it easy." Fred patted his shoulder. "Although, we should probably have a talk about your leg."

Like, why it's numb? "The kid?" he said instead, licking his lips, god, they tasted awful. Were they even his? "Dog?" duh, Dean, lips aren't detachable or interchangeable. Shit, he couldn't think clearly; who else's would they be?

"Both safe and sound and back under the watchful eye of his Momma." Fred assured him. "Now, how are you feeling?"

His head was supported by a cool hand on the back of his neck and a cup was held to his lips. He slurped and swallowed, calmed by the familiar routine of sipping and swallowing and re-opened his eyes, allowing them time to focus. He immediately wished he hadn't, for with the welcoming relief of clear sight came – pain. Pain and discomfort and unease and fear and panic. He winced, lip curling and he promptly closed his eyes.

Yeah, Dean thought, riding a wave of pain, where the little rug-rat should have been in the first place. "What happened?"

"Don't you remember?"

Remember? Oh. Yeah, let's see; fill a bag with sand, lift it, carry it, stack it until finally – wall was built. And he'd been exhausted too. Then, maybe not in this order, there'd been a kid, a dog, a river, mud, a mudslide, a flood. Rii—gghh—tttt, yeah, he'd drowned. Oh, and then been buried in mud and – oh, hello there rollercoaster stomach. Not gonna stay where you belong, are you?

"How you doing? Doing ok?" he eyed Dean warily, as the younger man swallowed repeatedly, face turning a pale grey. "Water going to stay down? No? Alright, here, just ease to your right, that's it, no, don't turn over, right shoulder only, lift your head, that's good, pail right there on the floor for you."

"Ow!" Dean grunted, finally flopping onto his back. "Who're you?"

"Fred." came the reply with the offer of more water which Dean greedily drank. What, like he hadn't inhaled half a muddy river? "What do you remember? Anything?"

He'd been dragged by his armpit – aah – behind a horse, hadn't he? Did he still have his arm? He raised his head, hunched a shoulder, waggled a finger, then another and hissed through his teeth. Oh yeah, yup, both arms still attached, though he kinda thought maybe if the left one weren't, he just might be okay with that. Then it might not hurt quite so much.

"Hey, hey…none of that now. No rubbing." a hand touched his shoulder, stilled any further attempted movement and patted his arm. "Little raw is all, only thing missing is a bit of skin."

_Missing _a bit of skin? Wouldn't it be more accurate to say, a bit _was left_? For it felt like he'd been skinned alive. And was he speaking out loud and didn't know it? Or was he communicating with gestures and his eyes and not aware of it? Who was this dude Fred again? Whoever he was, he seemed quite adept at understanding Dean. Fred, Fred, Fred….he didn't know anyone named Fred, well, he might, but no, no one close to him…Dammit, why didn't he remember who this Fred dude was? Or why he was where he was? Sam had left him…..ooohhhh. Sam. Ruh-roh.

"Uh….aah….ummm….say what?" Dean blinked, foul taste on his tongue and in his mouth making his stomach churn.

"Tug-of-war." Fred was saying. "River versus man." he spread his hands in apology. "Man won, but at a cost to you, I'm afraid." he offered more water. "Got your back too."

What got his back?

Bam! Dean grunted under the force of the mental slap and his head reeled with memories. He'd rode to town in a buggy-like motorized golf cart with…..with….what was his name? Old guy, dressed like a boy scout…Will! Yes! And then, the store where he'd helped load a wagon, and crossed over a river on a flooded bridge and humped up the hill, to a church….yes! They'd sandbagged the church! And they'd finished the wall and proud of it he was, for it'd been a mighty fine job he'd done.

"My wall?" he rubbed his forehead. He was obviously still forgetting a lot.

"Still standing and holding firm." Fred beamed. "Job well done son, well done indeed. Can't thank you enough."

Well then, his job here was done. So why was he lollygagging around, napping on a comfy cot? He had to get back to the camp and be in that stupid tent, right where he'd been left, when Sam returned. He paused, tent? What was he doing, staying in a tent? Ooooh, more water, yes, yes, he was still thirsty, good, oh-so-good.

"Gotta get back to the camp." he pushed the cup and the hand holding it away, sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "Sammy…see, I'd better be…" he stood up, searching his pockets for car keys. "Uh? Where are my car keys?"

"You're what?" Fred asked dubiously.

Well, at least in his mind, Dean stood up and spoke. He was also fully dressed, fit and fine, in command of his body and all his limbs and able to either appease Sam or kick his ass for being such a worry-wart. No pain, no heat, no sore throat, no aching chest, no burning shoulder, no numb foot, lungs normal sized, no headache, no blurry vision, no nothing.

Reality? Well, in reality, he did no more than weakly push at the arm holding the cup with two of his fingers on his uncooperative right hand. Now that there was just weird. If he remembered correctly, and he was sure he did, it'd been his left arm torn from its socket by the brutal – yes, brutal, for he clearly remembered how _that_ had felt – pull of the rope dragging him across the ground. So, why wasn't his right arm being obedient and obeying his commands?

Oh well, he didn't need two hands to walk, he needed two feet and two feet he had, so…...up! Up and at 'em! Get your ass moving before it gets kicked into gear for you! He moved his feet, but they didn't move in tandem. He pulled his left leg up so his foot rested flat on the cot, but his right didn't move. Not even a toe twitched. When he finally convinced it to mimic the movement his left leg had performed, prepared to hit the ground running, he promptly passed out.

"Well." Gene huffed. "That can't be good."

Gee, you think? Fred thought unkindly but he didn't show any outward emotion, attention focused solely on Dean.

"Dean? I need you to wake up. Can you do that for me? Dean?" his cheeks were patted, and his chin was wiped repeatedly with something scratchy. "Dean? Hey now, come back to me."

No. No, I don't want to wake up. So shove it up your ass Sammy ole boy, 'cause, nope, not gonna do it. Not even for you. I'm comfy-cozy right here in this painless veil of the unknown, where I don't have to worry about anything or anyone, so I'm not gonna do nuthin' I don't wanna. And nothing you say or do can make me!

Well, except that...a voice he didn't know; a touch that was hesitant and awkward and unfamiliar; him, blind and unable to move, restrained and alone and vulnerable. Oh. Yeah, no, that would do it.

"Sam?" he panicked, his face was wet and no matter how many times he raised his arm to wipe his face, it remained wet. "Stop it." he muttered irritably. "Don't."

"Here now, easy, take it easy." went the strange voice. "That's it, you're okay. Easy does it, okay?"

Feeling no threat, he let his eyes flutter, a yellow haze penetrating the dimness, searching for the owner of that voice. The same voice he'd been hearing, the voice he couldn't see.

"There, that better?"

Was what better? He still couldn't see, was still hot, his face was still wet, his chest still hurt, his mouth still tasted awful, he still didn't know…. "SAM!"

"Open your eyes. You're ok Dean, just relax and wake up."

What? His eyes were open! Weren't they? No? Oh well. "Fire…." he groaned, trying to raise first this left, then his right hand and wipe at his face. "Hot…fire!"

"There's no fire, you're just a mite warm is all. No, your hands are fine, though that's a nasty scar there on your arm. Open your eyes and you'll see. You thirsty? Want some more water? Here we go, that's it." Fred said, holding the cup and once again, he supported Dean's head. "Enough water then, okay? So now, need you to stay still and be with it enough to talk to me. How much do you know about serious injury?" he asked after several minutes, having given Dean time to calm down and wake up.

"Why?" he rasped, throat and chest sore and achy. Uh, _yeah,_ he'd _drowned_. "Whose….who's been…..who's hurt?" scar? What scar? He didn't have any visible scars…..well, not bad ones anyway. Well, he did, but not really noticeable to the naked, inexperienced eye. Well, his left arm was injured so maybe….but no, no, Fred was on his right side and he didn't have…..oh, the mark? Yeah, he supposed it could resemble a scar.

'"You are." Gene popped up. "The ladies want to know if you want something to eat. They have soup and…"

"Gene, he's not going to eat anything for a while." Fred sighed.

"No, I'm ok." Dean insisted, coughing to clear his throat. Wow, okay, yeah that failed. Throat still sore, chest still hurt. Least he could breathe – oh, be honest Dean, you can barely _wheeze! _Okay, **FINE! ** He could _wheeze_ with only a slight rattle, geesch, and he wasn't coughing up and spewing out water or mud or mold anymore. He shuddered with a pitiful moan at the memory of choking and gagging, numerous hands pummeling and pushing at his belly in an ill-advised attempt to help him. So, why was his flat on his back on a cot? He tried to sit up, made it to his elbows, his left arm said 'see ya' and he was once again sprawled flat on his back. He felt a draft. What the…? "My, uh, clothes? I'm not wearing…why….?" he paused, tilted his chin into his chest, looked down, saw his toes and used a thumb to lift the blanket from where it'd hitched up against his chest. "I'm naked?" he gasped, aghast. "Get me my clothes!" he roared in indignation. Okay, squeaked was more like it, but still…..a man had his dignity!

"Yeah, couldn't leave you in your clothes with all that mud still on 'em." Fred explained simply. "Once we get you all cleaned up, we'll find something for you to wear, don't you worry none."

"Clean me up? I'm dirty?" he tugged at the blanket to cover himself, allowing Fred to lend a hand. "Wait, I'm hurt?" God, it hurt to breathe deep enough to talk. To his ears, he sounded just fine, but judging by the sympathetic looks on the faces of Mr. One-Arm and the man named Fred, he must not be speaking as well as he thought he was.

"Don't you remember?" Gene asked. "See, Jamie ran after Bernard and you chased him down and…"

"Say, Gene, why don't you go see if maybe Gloria has some juice or something." Fred suggested. "He just woke up, likely his thoughts are addled and you nattering on in his ear ain't helping him sort things out none. Off with you now or you're likely to spook him."

Spook me? "Will?" Dean licked his lip, crossing his left arm over his belly and hugging it against himself with his right arm. "He was with me, right?"

"I'm right here Dean." Will was standing behind Fred. "You just relax, we'll have you fixed up in no time."

Uh-hum. Right. Yeah, see, no. His armpit was on fire! All hair singed off. His shoulder was screaming and the skin across his chest stung, as did his face and he wondered if he had a bad sunburn.

"You want some ice?" Will offered. "We got some, not a lot but the ladies are willing to part with what they have if it'll help you."

Ice? For a sunburn? What new hell was this? What kind of ass-backwards, hill-billy yokels had Sam stranded him with? Oh-ye-gawds-this-couldn't-be-his-life.

"I got the bleeding stopped. Just, wrapped towels around your leg." Fred offered lamely. "The rope burn stopped oozing on its own but I haven't attempted to treat it yet."

"We took a vote." Will said. "Decided to pull it out and be ready in case there was heavy bleeding."

"We have a first aid kit, but…." Fred shrugged. "I think you're a bit beyond Bactine and a Band-Aid, you know?" he smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

"Uh, what?" Dean let his head plop back onto the pillow. Great, so not only did they not know how to save a man from drowning, they had no idea how to properly treat an injury. "Treat what?" pause, "Pull what out?" boy he was shaky and disoriented.

"You have a rather nasty rope burn." Fred explained. "Under your arm and across your chest, missed your neck the way you put the rope over your head. They pulled you out by it."

Right. No wonder his shoulder felt like he'd been dragged behind a horse, he'd been pulled out of a raging river! Same dif! But this amount of pain from a rope burn? Really? Huh. No, he refused to believe it. Not some pansy-ass rope burn. Psshh…..

"Help me sit up." Dean ordered. Refreshed by the water and gaining both strength and clarity the longer he was awake, he was beginning to make sense of what was going on. "Where's that first aid kit? Lemme see it and get me a mirror."

"Well…." Fred hedged. "Alright." he finally conceded. "But you stay put. Don't go trying to get up."

No fear of that, Dean thought, finally upright and using the blanket to mop the heavy sweat from his face. Jeeze-Louweeze, he was light-headed and dizzy. He slowly moved his arm away from his body and attempted to lift it over his head. He accomplished the motion with help from Fred, a whine or two and some whimpering. Holy moly, again, all this pain from a rope burn? Not likely. Was his shoulder dislocated? Didn't feel like it, not the same kind of pain.

Dean took the mirror. Oh, ow! He hissed, sucking air through clenched teeth; the 'rope burn' across his chest and shoulder was red, raw, puffy and seeping. Like broken open blisters. Just looking in the mirror made it hurt worse. And while the slice of raw, open skin across his chest and shoulder wasn't exactly bleeding, it was spotty with blood, both dried and fresh. And his armpit…oh man! Would the hair ever grow back? He couldn't see across his back, but yeah, he bet the rope wound still oozed and seeped and wasn't any cleaner than the one he could see. Great, just open a breeding ground for infection and invite every known bacteria right on over, why don't you, Dean. He said nothing, set the mirror down and gestured for the first aid kit to be set in his lap.

Hey, his toes were cold. He glanced down at his feet with a distracted frown. Something there wasn't right either.

"This it? This all you got?" Dean said in disgust, wistfully thinking of the first aid kit in the trunk of the Impala with some mighty fine pain meds. He set aside pads of square gauze, rolls of white net bandages, rolls of water-proof first aid tape, a tube of antibiotic cream and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Not the best, but would certainly do. For a rope burn anyway. "Scissors? Nail clippers?"

"We have art supplies for the children in the church nursery." Will said helpfully but Dean shook his head. Plastic, blunt toy scissors wouldn't snip shredded skin from the torn edges of a rope burn or broken open blisters, for the lack of anything better to call the…well, wound. "No. Well, okay, let me go ask the ladies. Never ceases to amaze me what women can pull out of the smallest pocketbook."

"Mabel said to get him to drink this." Gene was back, bottle of some kind of juice in his hand. "How's he doing?"

"I'm good." Dean set the kit aside and arranged the supplies he'd selected on the cot next to his hip. "I want my clothes back."

"Oh, sure, let me go find something for you to wear." Gene bobbed his head and went off.

"Gonna need a lot of hot water." Dean said briskly, rubbing his good hand across his face. "Clean soft cloths, nothing scratchy and NO sponges!" he waited for Fred's nod of understanding and agreement. "Okay, good, first you clean with hot water, get all the mud and mold and bits of rope fibers out. Then you snip, then you clean again with more hot water – fresh, then douse with the peroxide, apply the cream, don't be stingy either, then tape a pad over the worst spots. We'll see about a bandage later. Then, once you find my pants, I'll…" he saw Fred shaking his head. "What?" he asked impatiently.

"Snip?" Fred repeated doubtfully. "Snip? You mean, snip _your skin_?"

"Uh, yeah. You said you can slice and dice, well, here you go, snip and clip." Dean growled. "You're shaking your head, why are you shaking your head? Don't shake your head. I can get my chest and maybe my shoulder, but not under my arm or my back."

"Rescue crews will…" Fred began but now it was Dean who was shaking his head.

"Infection." Dean stressed. "Is something I can't fight on my own. God knows what was in that mud and now imbedded in me."

Fred held a hand up. "Stop, just stop." he didn't add infection wasn't the only immediate risk. Loss of blood just might top it.

"Don't suppose there's any whisky around?" Dean asked hopefully.

"This is a church!" Gene exclaimed. "There are no spirits on the premises."

So, not a Catholic Church then, bummer, Dean thought sadly, for at that moment, he would have gladly accepted Sacramental wine.

"Say, uh, Dean." Fred was waving his hands about. "Something we gotta talk about before we tackle your chest and shoulder." he reached for the blanket but Dean held firm.

"Like what?" Dean heaved impatiently. It really was time to lie back down now. "We really don't have time to waste. The longer it goes without being cleaned and treated with antiseptic…." he lost the tug-of-war with Fred over the blanket. "_What-the-fuck-is-that_?!" he yelped. "HOLY SHIT!"

That pain in his chest? His shoulder? His armpit? Yeah, minor league. It no longer existed. Was nothing compared to the horror he stared at after Fred flipped the blanket off his leg. Ooh-ho, his leg was no longer numb now, nuh-huh. Nope, once seen, it let loose. Pain took delight in dancing, flinging and flopping around, it was frreeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Weeeee….eeeeeeee…..weeeeee...heeheeheee!

"Don't know what to do about that." Fred confessed.

Dean's eyes rolled, and his breath hitched. He'd been impaled through the foot before and he remembered the pain – no, the agony – that had accompanied the injury. So, that explained the hot knife. They'd meant to yank out whatever was sticking out of his leg and cauterize the wound. Oooooooooohhhhhhh GGG-aaawww-dddddd.

Now that he knew about their well-meant but ill-advised plan, now that he knew something was jammed into his shin, and that it had to come out - because, hello, infection - now that he knew they had no idea what to do about it, and he was going to have to help them, there was no denying the pain.

His last conscious thought was: Good God, did he have to do everything himself?

***000***

"Hey, wait a minute! Hold up!" Don called until Sam finally pulled up and waited in the middle of the road with Rob for Don to catch up. "Rob! Where are you going? You can't just leave! We have the kids to take care of!"

"Go back with him." Sam ordered Rob, paying Don no attention. "See if you can get out on your cell or on the CB I saw in the cabin with Will. Get some help up here."

"Are you going to the store? We should take the kids. The church is the highest ground and we'll be safest there." Don panted. "They're already packed up, shouldn't take long to….."

"NO! No way!" Sam exclaimed. "You keep those kids up there in that camp, do you understand me?" he voice rose to a shout. "Are you out of your mind? We have no idea what we're going to find!"

"Now, see here." Don blustered. "Something happened up there in the mountain, and we don't know for sure what, so…"

"Don't make me teach you a lesson. You won't like it if you do." Sam threatened, itching to continue running.

"Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?"

"Damn right." he was so impatient, he was dancing. "Stay out of my way."

"I don't know who you are, who you think you are, but you are no one to give me orders, take charge of this situation or take responsibility for these kids."

"I'm only going to say this once, so you hear me." Sam went nose to nose with Don. "Those kids are safe at the camp, you take them from there and I'm forced to choose, it won't be you or that troop. Am I clear?"

"No." Don didn't back down. "No, you're not. You're not clear at all."

"Sam, hey man, come on. Chill out." Rob said uneasily. "I'm sure your brother's fine up at the church."

"You don't understand." Sam stated grimly. "It's not Dean I'm worried about, it's what he's capable of doing if threatened or...badly hurt." he took a breath, stabbing a finger at Don's chest. "Not. One. Kid." he turned away before he ended up punching Don and saddling himself with the responsibility of a troop of Scouts.

"HEY, Sam! Come on, there's no reason - none at all - to believe your brother's even hurt, let alone, badly! Sam!" Rob started after Sam who was once again off and running. He didn't know why he followed Sam, his place was with Don and the troop, but follow Sam, he did.

He finally caught up to Sam at the gas station, following him over to the mini-mart where he easily let himself in. "What are you looking for? No one's here."

Yeah, neither's anything else, Sam thought as he poked and walked around. "The camp is on this side of the river but the church and town are on the other side, right?"

"Yeah, see the river winds its way…."

Sam didn't care how the fucking river twisted and turned, the mini-mart/gas station was empty, shelves bare of pre-packaged snacks and cups and canisters of sugar and powdered creamer. No bottled water or juice either. Someone had gathered supplies and taken them somewhere.

"Where's the church?" he interrupted. "Can you walk there from here?"

"Sure, sure, but…." Rob waved a hand impatiently. "It's over the river and through the woods and up the hill. I don't think the bridge….."

"Show me." Sam demanded, on his way out the door, not waiting to see if Rob chose to follow.

"Sam, I don't…" Rob skipped a step or two to catch up to him. "I doubt you can cross the bridge."

"We haven't seen any mud." Sam seethed. "Something, somewhere gave way and came down. No one is here. Show me the town and the church." knowing Dean, and boy did he know Dean, his brother would have gone to help. Help with what, was the question. Had he gone before or after the suspected mud slide? Hum, that was a question he should have asked the cook. Well, too late now.

"Yeah, but…see the town would have evacuated to the church. It's the shelter whenever they expect a flood."

"And that's often?" Sam questioned, mind whirling and racing. "The expectation of a flood?"

"Often enough the National Guard has a sand pile to make bags to protect the church."

"So, this way?" he strode down the road, instinctively heading to the river, coming up short when under his very feet the road gave way to mushy mud that sucked at his boots with an ominous warning to go no further. Were it just a river, Sam would, despite its current, attempt to swim across, but it wasn't just water. It was dirt and debris, slightly moving mud that was unstable, unsettled and of unknown depths.

"Bridge is – was – right there." Rob pointed. "Foot bridge there and there…..there's where the houses should be."

"Should be?"

Rob swallowed. "So, it was a mud slide."

"And the church?"

Rob shook his head. "You can't see it from the road."

"So, there's no way of knowing whether or not the mud slide took it out." buried it, Sam thought, and everyone in it.

"No." Rob said hoarsely.


	8. Chapter 8

"He moved his finger."

"He did not. It was his eye. His eye fluttered."

"I didn't see that."

"See! There! That, did you see that?"

"You're a blind old bat!"

"You should get him to drink. He needs to drink. If he doesn't get something to drink, he'll dehydrate."

"He needs to eat. I should make him something to eat."

"Drinking lots of fluids is more important than eating in blood loss."

"Well, he hasn't lost any yet."

"And you think he won't?"

"Do you think he fainted?"

"Or passed out from the pain. Oh, the poor dear."

Dear God, where was he? Eat, drink and not be merry? Yikes! Dean heard the myriad of voices, if not all the words and decided he wanted no part of anyone. Having made that decision, he wished the voices and the people they belonged to far away. He didn't wish them harm, just wished them far away from him. Good God, could they not shut up and leave a man to, you know, die in peace?

"He's dirty Fred, why is he still dirty? Have you not bathed a baby before?"

"Of course he has Millie, don't be daft."

"Who are you calling daft, you old biddy."

"Biddy!? Now see here, you blind bat!"

"Look at that! See all that mud? He's covered in it. It's filth! Germs and bacteria and….."

Apparently not.

"STOP!" Dean croaked hoarsely yet with enough authority the voices fell quiet and an uncomfortable silence settled around him. "God." he swallowed. "Just….shuddup."

"Everyone out!" Fred shooed the crowd away from the cot. "Yes, yes, go heat some soup. Use the camp stove, it runs on propane. Gene, go help the ladies with the stove. Out! Out, I say. Be gone."

"Where'd…..you…..go? Dean made the simple question an accusation and Fred gave him a sheepish grin. "….let everyone…..in?"

"Raining out, we need the fire to heat water."

Yeah, that explained nothing.

"Here, now, you just take it easy." Fred fussed, touching Dean's cheek, patting his shoulder, fluffing the blanket. "You've had quite the time of it, so you just take a moment and be still."

Right, his arm was hurt. Oh, and don't forget the leg. But his arm….wow, what'd he do to it again? Rope burn, someone had said. Nah, nothing that silly. He shifted his weight off his right hip, biting his lip to keep the wince from becoming a groan. Didn't feel like it was silly. _It fucking hurt!_

"Oh, you want to sit up? Well, I suppose you can." Fred's tone held doubt and maybe disapproval but he helped Dean achieve his goal. "See? We moved you closer to the wall, so you can rest against it."

Sure. Whatever.

"Passed right out, you did." Fred paused. "Didn't take you for the squeamish sort but you took one look at your leg and fainted like…eh, you fainted." he finished lamely.

Like a girl? That what you were gonna say, old man? Dean thought uncharitably. Good thing you didn't say it, Freddy old boy. Drop dead Fred. Hadn't that been an 80's movie? Better than Freddy Krueger. Hee-hee….ooohhhhhh. He groaned, pin-pricks of pain stung his chest and the back of his shoulder. Oooooh….owww…mmmoooaannnnn.

"Easy there son, no hurry. Just relax, watch your leg."

"Yeah." Dean said when he trusted his voice not to moan or whine. Right, his leg. What had Fred said? He'd stopped the bleeding and wrapped a towel around it? Well, the towel was gone and the sight was gruesome. "I….was impaled…through my foot once and another time, I was stabbed in the calf with a stick." same leg too, but opposite foot, if he remembered correctly, and he wasn't so sure he did. "Did….I break it?"

"Dangers of the job, huh?"

If only the old man knew the truth.

"No, neither your leg nor your ankle." Fred continued, rubbing his hands together. "Here, you want a drink? Just water."

"Meh." Dean took the plastic bottle, the top already off. He hadn't seen any tweezers in the first aid kit…oh….no, wait, yes he had; those worthless blue plastic ones. "How….how much time?"

"What's that?"

"How long, since…." huh, he tried to think, wanted to think, but yeah….couldn't do it. "The river? It flood? Has the water reached the wall?"

"Yes, see the mud pushed the river in a different direction, but…"

"Mud? What mud?" Dean laid his head against the wall and let his mind wander, waiting to see what it collected on its meandering stroll. "Oh. That mud." yeah, he'd bathed in it; memo to all women – now hear this – cold mud bath….not therapeutic. "I, uh, didn't hit my head, did I?"

"Not that we know of and we checked you over pretty good." Fred grinned. "Though, apparently not to the ladies satisfaction. They think you're still dirty."

Dean threaded his fingers through his mud-clumped, still-wet-in-spots hair and grimaced. Aah, yeah, still dirty Fred. But no sore spots, no bumps or lumps or open cuts. Okay then, onward, for his left shoulder had yet to cooperate with the command to raise his left arm.

"I should go," he licked his lip, "go see the wall." he hunched his left shoulder, cringed at the result and laid his head against the wall, eyes closed. Oh yeah, no, he wouldn't be going anywhere.

"You're not going anywhere." Fred confirmed Dean's unspoken revelation firmly. "I mean, you are, you will. We're working on getting you out of here. Power's out, phone lines are dead, cells don't get a signal, CB's static but don't you worry none, rescue crews won't be long." he paused. "Though they'll probably wait until morning, daylight and all that."

Dean had no idea what time it was or when daylight was scheduled to dawn. One thing he did know – Sam wouldn't wait for the sight of the sun to come get him. Best he not look like a pin-cushion upon the arrival of Frantic-Funnel shaped Sam. He gazed down at his leg in disgust. Hopefully, it wasn't _too_ bad.

"So, aah, what do you think?" Fred asked.

"About what?" Dean sighed, forcing himself to focus. "My leg?"

"Well, yeah. You told us how to treat your rope burn but…your leg….should we pull it out? Leave it in? We were going to…."

Dean held a hand up to stop him. "Yeah, about that, FYI? That knife was nowhere near hot enough."

"Now, how would you know that?" Fred asked perplexed.

"Trust me, I know." he tested his leg, it'd turned to granite and was too heavy to move. Well, okay, maybe if he concentrated hard, real hard, he might be able to flex his toes, though what the hell good that would do, he didn't know but it was a goal he intended to achieve. Let's see, okay, grit teeth, clench jaw, furrow brow, eyebrows meet, scrunch nose – ow – there! He'd moved his big toe! Woooo-weeee!

"You all right there son?" Fred asked worriedly. "You have need of the restroom?"

"_What_?" Dean gaped, crashing back to reality with a thud. "_NO_!"

"You sure? You looked like…"

"Moving on." Dean groused hastily. "Have you tried to pull it out?"

"No. Though after the way they dragged you out of the mud and carried you up here, and then yanked your pants off, I'd say it's wedged in there but good."

"But you don't know?" Dean sighed. "Did you find any scissors?"

Fred nodded, toddling over to a nearby pew and returning with a variety of scissors, including the stupid plastic ones for three-year-olds he'd previously rejected. What part of no, did they not understand? He bit back a sigh, they were trying their best. Then he frowned, he had rejected those toy scissors, hadn't he?

He chose a small, curved pair from the display in front of him and snipped at the web of skin between his finger and thumb and handed them to Fred. "These."

"Aah, Mabel's." Fred nodded. "She'll be so pleased you chose hers, though Millie will have her nose out-of-joint."

"You're a butcher, right?" he'd sort out who Millie and Mabel were later.

"How'd you know that? You were unconscious when…"

"Slice and dice." Dean repeated tiredly. Sitting up and holding a conversation was not agreeing with him. "Can you sharpen these?"

"I don't have a whetstone on me but I can make do. I'm sure the ladies have straight pins or tin-foil." Fred set the rejected scissors aside, picked up the pair that Dean had chosen and headed off for the hall.

"Find some decent tweezers!" Dean yelled after him. He let his breath out, grateful for the reprieve. He needed a moment alone to gather both his wits and his resolve and decide what to do about his leg. He needed to think. He had no idea how much time had passed, infection was a huge risk, and loss of blood could be another. He didn't know how safe they all were from encroaching flood waters. He didn't know when to expect Sam. He didn't…..oh crap!

On the heels of Fred's departure, came Gene's arrival.

"What can I do for you?" Gene asked. "The ladies have soup on, I know you aren't hungry and won't want to eat, but it gives them something to do other than argue over you."

"Uh, thanks." he sat up from his slouch against the wall. Why would ladies be arguing over him? "Could you…?" he sat forward. "Help me. Just grab my foot under the heel….yes, that's it, like that…..now push, wait, let me see if my knee will bend….right, now just put my foot, sole down, on the mattress…..thanks."

Oh, holy-moly, that hurt! Pain crept and crawled, spreading from a tingle to a full-fledged attack. He sat back, leg still raised, feeling light-headed. Whether from pain, or knowledge or despair, he hadn't yet determined. Sam was never going to allow him to leave home again. He swallowed hard, tongue licking his upper lip, tasting the tangy tease of salt. He was shaking and he couldn't stop. He wanted to, he tried, but the ability to gain control was beyond him.

"Well?" Gene asked. "What do you think?"

Dean shrugged his good shoulder, raising his hand to meet his lowered head, using the blanket to wipe the sweat from his face. Hell, he didn't know. Looked like metal or steel or something grey, could be anything. He had no idea how deep it was imbedded; didn't know if it had struck muscle or a vein or bone; could have torn through ligaments or tendons.

Pull it out: Bleeding, possible injury to nerves and ligaments and tissue and muscle.

Leave it in: Infection, pain, possibility of imbedding it deeper. Of course, his jeans shouldn't have been dragged over it and yanked off either.

Bottom line: He wanted it out.

"Here now." Fred was back. "Didn't take long at all, they're so small. I was able to get you some tweezers, compliments of the ladies from the church sewing circle. Oh, you were able to move your leg? That's good. How does it feel?"

"I helped." Gene supplied. "I dunno Fred, he doesn't look to good."

"What do you expect Gene?" Fred sat down. "So? We should…..should…what? Wrap it back up best we can or pull it out? I had a towel around it, but you must have moved it so you could see. We were gonna yank….."

"Yeah." Dean cut him off. "I know." his stomach churned and roiled at the thought of what they had voted to do. The thought was enough to make him vomit. Both his chest and stomach hurt from their attempts to force him to evict his intestines and…Oh-oh, he _was_ going to spew!

"Here now, pail's right here." Fred said kindly. "Too much water too fast, perhaps?" he frowned. He didn't like the ashen pallor of his patients skin, or the heavy sweat, or his shaking hands, or the fine trembling in his shoulders. Shock? "Let's get this around your shoulders. This cloth first, all soft like to protect your bad shoulder, then a lap-throw one of the ladies had. All soft and fuzzy. Get you warm. Gonna straighten your leg out so you can lie down, okay?"

"No." Dean mumbled, accepting the warm fleece but resisting any attempts to help him lie down. "Gotta see first…..see what it is."

"I think that can wait."

"NO!" Dean spit one last time into the pail and let Gene remove it, waving off the offer of more water. "Too much time….. and I don't know how much." the fine trembling had become full body shaking. "No….no time."

Fred's frown deepened, the poor boy wasn't making any sense and he wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Coming through!" Will yelled. "Hot water! Coming through!" he came through the door from the hall, a five-gallon pail in each hand. "Got more heating. Got a pail of cool water and one of lukewarm coming right behind me."

Dean regrouped and roused. He best take control of the situation lest he find himself bundled, burned or – he gulped – boiled and broiled while being butchered! Oh God, he shuddered! And he needed to do it now while he could still think, and was awake and aware, if not fully alert. While he could still keep his stomach somewhat under control and was able to fight off dizziness and the overwhelming desire to faint.

With a limp wrist, he motioned for Will to set the pails down next to the cot so he could see if steam rose from the water within. It did, and he was satisfied it was indeed hot. He tried to think of something Gene could go do; the guy was driving him nuts. He really needed the guy to stop hovering like a moth to a light, but the hot water reminded him of their plan to burn him with a hot knife and he couldn't get past it. Geesch! What had they been thinking?

They'd been trying to help you, you ungrateful wretch! His mind chided, then his stomach clenched so violently, he doubled over from the pain. He rode it out silently, chin to chest, eyes closed, but man-oh-man, his jaw ached from the effort not to emit a whimper. He lost the battle but before he could do more than moan, he was completely distracted.

Say what?

"…..Millie and Mabel are waiting their turn." Will was telling Fred. "They have this lavender body wash they say with soothe him." Fred muttered something. "Yeah, I know, but while you were out building up the fire, they took a good look at him and declared he's still too dirty. Mud apparently breeds bacteria and germs so they want to bathe him properly."

"Bring a candle or a lantern, gonna need a flame." Dean finally got out, after sputtering incoherently and drawing twin looks of confusion. _Bathe him with lavender body wash_? Dear God, what had he done to deserve any of this? "Gonna need good light as well." choosing to ignore the thought of his impending bed bath, he moved on. "Ask the ladies for thread, nylon is preferable, though any strong thread will do." of course, if the thread was silk, Sam would rip every last stitch out and re-stitch with thread of his choosing, gentleness not required. "See if any of them have a curved needle."

"Wait, for what?" Will asked.

"Stitches?" Fred guessed. "Your leg? Are you sure?"

"Best be prepared." Dean said, focusing on not slurring his words. "Gotta pull it out, control any bleeding, cut away torn skin and damaged tissue with these scissors, remove any foreign objects with tweezers, clean it thoroughly with hot water, treat it with antiseptic, stitch and bandage."

"Damaged what? How would I know what's damaged and I don't know how to stitch." Fred was pale. "Not…how deep or…"

"I'll guide you." Dean cracked a wan grin. "Snip any flaps of skin you can move with your finger then take your needle and begin sewing as far away from the cut as the wound is deep. Cut it off and tie a knot every 1/4 inch. Don't worry about scarring, only gotta do good enough to keep me from bleeding out 'til Sam gets here."

"Yes, see, you mean your brother, right?" Will began, only to have Dean shake his head. "Yes, he….the rescue workers won't allow him to come with them when they come for us. He'll meet you at the hospital."

"You don't know Sam." Dean rubbed at his eyes. "He'll be here before any rescue attempt is made."

"I don't see...…how?" Will questioned doubtfully, but Dean had no answer. It wasn't explainable, it just was.

"Walk, swim, raft, canoe, hovercraft, harpoon a zip line, swing from tree limb to tree limb….he'll find a way." and depending on how quickly Cas arrived, and most likely, he'd already been on his way to them, and not from all that far away either, Sam would have little difficulty reaching him. And with Sam would be _their_ first aid kit, with those wonderful pain-meds and any and every medical supply needed; there'd be no need to make do with what was on hand.

"About those, erhm, stitches." Fred cleared his throat. "I don't think I can do it. I mean, what if they tear loose or they bleed or I don't get deep enough or you need stitches inside, like….."

"Fred…Fred…..hey, don't worry about it. I'm right here, I'll help you and it only has to be good enough to get me through a day or so, okay? Maybe I won't even need them…but if I do, we need to be ready. Let's just worry about stopping any bleeding and let Sammy fuss about any internal damage to muscle or tendon, okay?" he waited. "Fred, we good?"

Fred wiped his brow, squared his shoulders, said a prayer and nodded. Dean blew his breath out.

"I might pass out when you remove that." he gestured to his leg. "Don't worry, I'll come around. If there's bleeding, control it, you can wait for me to wake up or begin stitching if you feel ready….okay? Fred?"

"Right….yes…..yes….."

"Hold the needle in the flame before you thread it…let it turn black, soak the thread in water as hot as you can get it….try to be as clean as you can be. Infection is my enemy." Dean decided he should lie down before the procedure. "Just grab it and yank, pull it out. Don't worry about me."

"What if…..what if…it….it's, what if it doesn't come out?"

"It will. Use your strength. Ignore me if I scream, and don't stop. One fluid motion Fred, okay?"

"It's wet and slippery and I don't know if I can get a good grip on it. It's not protruding out too far and….."

"Maybe we should let it be." Will said dubiously. "Why put you through all this? They will airlift you to the hospital…"

"You said the ladies sew. Perhaps one of them has a pair of hemostats." Dean suggested. He was finding it harder to breathe, harder to talk, harder to concentrate, harder to stay awake. "Ask when you go get the thread and needle."

"Hemo whato?" Will repeated.

"I know what they are." Fred said grimly. "But Dean, seriously, not really used for sewing."

"You wanna bet?" Dean countered. "Go ask."

Will exchanged a look with Fred that implied they both thought Dean had finally gone and lost his wits, then shrugged and went off. Fred busied himself filling bowls with water, positioning candles and lanterns and an LED flashlight. He laid out the first aid supplies Dean had selected and sorted them in the order he felt he would use them, all the while keeping one eye on Dean.

"Leg first, then shoulder and arm." Dean instructed, answering Fred's unspoken question. "Don't stop, don't quit, don't wimp out on me, it's gotta be done."

Fred nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but he wasn't so sure _it did have to be done_. Dean took his silence as agreement. If he noticed how green Fred was around the gills, he didn't comment.

"I'll be hanged." Will came in waving what both Dean and Fred knew were hemostats. "Here we go! Oh, and thread and needles, take your pick." he gave all items to Dean. "They're bringing a bowl of boiling water. Hope it's hot enough for you."

Dean nodded. He was too tired, in too much pain and too disoriented to pay the variety of thread displayed before him the attention it deserved, so he chose the spool of darkest thread that appeared more string then thread – his sight was a bit blurry – selected the first needle that drew blood after pricking his finger and handed both to Fred.

"Just….do me a favor." Dean bit his lip, riding a wave of pain with a wince. "…..don't….don't let Sam know….don't tell him….about the kid…..about the dog."

"Sure." hands petted and patted his foot, rotating his ankle, eliciting a cry but not a shriek as both his feet were slightly elevated. "You won't be walking on this leg anytime soon." and Sam wouldn't be there at all, so sure, promise whatever the boy wanted to hear, Fred said to himself.

"Sam." Dean insisted, blowing his breath out. "Don't pat me on my head and patronize me….."

"Don't you worry none about him." his cheek was patted, a gesture of comfort Dean wanted no part of. "You'll see him at the hospital."

"No." Dean shook his head, coming up on his elbows to see what they were doing to him. All the moving about and the hands lifting his leg and wiggling him down the mattress made the pain flare and nausea to threaten to overcome him. Again. "He'll be here."

"That's not possible." Fred reiterated. "Now, no more fussing about your brother."

"You don't know Sam." his eyes narrowed as a stick appeared in front of his face, he paused, speaking when he had the breath. "Don't tell him what happened," pause, pant, gulp, "just keep saying, 'you don't know'." he glanced up at Gene, who stood beaming, waving his hand all about. "The hell?" seriously, _what the hell_? What was the crazy-ass dude trying to do? Land a plane?

"A stick for you to bite on." Gene announced, bringing it closer for Dean's inspection. Too close, because even if his vision wasn't blurry, all Dean could make out was a dark blob. He raised his hand to grab Gene's wrist, pushed it away then forced it to remain still so he could see what Gene held. "Cleaned it and everything."

"A what?" Dean frowned, bottom lip caught between his teeth. "I don't….what's that for?"

"So you don't bite your tongue or swallow it." Gene explained, giving Dean a look that clearly stated he thought Dean should know what it was for.

Dean was too tired and too miserable to argue or to attempt to set Gene straight about pain and how to handle it. "Fred?"

"Okay, sure. Don't tell Sam what happened." the tone and the accompanying pat on the head were condescending and Dean gritted his teeth to keep from lashing out. "Anything else we shouldn't tell him?

"Won't be that easy." Dean warned. "Cas." he grunted around the stick now between his teeth. Couldn't they have at least retrieved a stick of wood that, you know, didn't taste like wood? Birch maybe? "I need….Cas." he let his head hit the edge of the cot frame with such a thud, that somewhere, a shiver skittered down Sam's spine. "Sam will know….just tell Sam to call Cas."

Castiel wouldn't be able to heal him fully, not with his diminished powers, but he would be able to heal the injury if not the results. Not that that made any sense, well, it did, but only to him. He'd never be able to make this motley medical crew doing their best to treat him understand. What a pickle he'd gotten himself into this time. He could hear Sam now: If you'd stayed where I told you to! If you hadn't left the camp! If you hadn't decided to make everyone your responsibility! If you ever listened to me shit like this wouldn't happen!

Aww, hell, he was so going to have his ass kicked when Sam finally caught up with him, and yeah, this time Cas would help. With that last thought, Dean let go. Put himself in the hands of people he didn't know and sent out an SOS call of his own. Yeah, Cas, come find me now. He slid deeper into black oblivion, disconnecting from awareness.

What he really wanted was Sam. He wanted to be home, in his own room, the familiar whump-whump of the bunker's exhaust system echoing in his ears while Sam, barefoot and hair in disarray, padded up and down the hallways, back and forth to the kitchen, bringing him soup and toast with both butter and peanut butter and hot toddy's and juice. Where Sam would pass the open door to his room every five minutes to make sure Dean was still within and still breathing and didn't want for anything. Where Sam would sit in a chair near the bed when he thought Dean was asleep; where the barest whimper would bring Sam running; where his every need and demand would be catered to; where….AAUUGGHH!

He jerked, flailing on the bed, his head banging against the frame, the wall, someone's arm. Voices shushed him. His foot was caught and held and something reached through his skin, through muscle and tissue, past ligaments and tendons and proceeded to yank his bone right out of his leg!

Oh For The Love Of God! How could they have gotten it wrong!?

His leg might have been numb, might have tingled and burned but now…..now…? Oh, now he had full feeling. He could feel it all; pain and torment and torture…would it all go away, he wondered if they put back the bone they'd stolen? His teeth ground against the stick, tongue muting his screams and impeding his ability to gulp air. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't lie still.

You can't panic, you can't panic, do not panic, he sang to himself, you can't afford to panic, not with this bunch of local yokels! Gain control Dean, control the pain and your body's reaction to it. You can do it, you _have_ to do it.

He bucked and flopped, his movements tempered by a gentle hold. His panic, fueled by a cacophony of strange, frantic, voices fed his strength and desperation, and he was able to throw off the hold on his right shoulder and sit up but unable to jerk his leg free from the hands holding it to the mattress.

"Dean."

His name was spoken gently, softly and repeatedly. The voices became one; calm, steady, soothing. It was low-pitched and didn't spike in alarm, just kept saying his name, telling him he was okay, he was safe, that he was going to be ok. His panic slowly subsided until finally quelled.

So, he sat. He sat upright and still, left arm hugged against his side, fingers clenching his belly that heaved with the effort to breathe normally. His shoulder was on fire, screaming in harmony with his leg but he sat and he remained still and he did nothing.

"You with me?" Fred asked. Dean nodded, not yet having recovered the ability to speak. "It's in there pretty good, I pulled once and you flipped out on me. Didn't budge it either." he held up the hemostats. "You wanna lie down? Maybe you should."

Dean spit the stick out and licked his lip. Salty. Just how bad was he sweating anyway? "Be ready." he gasped, tongue dry and thick. "Might gush like a geyser."

"Be ready with what?" Gene asked bewildered but Will stood ready, holding a towel in both hands, ready to shine a melon.

"Don't pussy-foot around like a pansy. " Dean used the fleece around his shoulders to wipe his face. "Yank it out."

"It'd lodged….." Fred began.

"Don't worry about it." Dean waved him off. "Just get it out."

"What if yanking it out tears your leg worse than it did going in?" Fred argued. "Rips or severs something it shouldn't?"

"Gimme." Dean held his good hand out and waggled his fingers for the hemostats. "I'll do it."

Fred's face twisted in horror and for the first time, his hand began to shake. The thought of Dean doing that to himself made him sick.

"No." Fred said firmly, drawing himself up straight. "No…" he positioned the hemostats, clamped them closed, closed his eyes, wrapped his left hand over his right so both were holding the handle, took a huge breath, held it...and yanked.

Will and Gene both leapt forward to support Dean, for with that one yank, Fred dragged Dean off the cot and nearly landed him on the floor. One-handed, Dean couldn't catch himself and prevent the fall. Will might be elderly and Gene only had one arm, but between them and Dean's struggle to hold on, Dean remained on the cot.

"Got it!" Fred announced triumphantly. He waved the offending grey object still firmly clasped in the hemostats about in the air. "Little sucker had a firm hold but….OH MY LORD!" he yelped. "TOWEL! TOWEL! I need a TOWEL! PRESSURE!"

Abandoning Dean to regain his balance and hold his head up, Will complied. He grabbed a folded towel, slapped it over the gash in Dean's shin and squeezed tight.

"SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!" Gene danced, squawking in fright. "That's a lot of blood!"

Will was feeling a bit faint himself. Having tended scraped knees and a broken bone or two, he didn't fluster easily. He'd seen a lot of injuries and illnesses over the years with the Scouts. Why, take right here, for instance. He hadn't felt fear or dismay over the rope burn or the protruding object from Dean's leg. But now, this…this…..well, that was a lot of blood. At first, it had been red, the color blood was supposed to be, but now? Now…..

His balance recovered, both ass cheeks firmly back on the cot, Dean sagged against the wall. His lead lolled and his chin dipped, yeah, maybe he should have lain down. There were several Fred's, a couple Will's and hey Gene, good news buddy, not only did you grow a second arm, you grew a third and…oh there, was that a fourth? No? Then what the hell was it? The room swirled and dipped and spun, images multiplied and danced, he was unable to distinguish noises, everything sounded like he was under water. He was hot, he was dizzy, he was...

"Why is it purple?" Will blurted out. Too stunned to curb his tongue, he forgot rule number one. Don't show panic lest your patient panics right along with you.

"It's not purple." Dean panted calmly, snapped out of his funk. "Nicked a vein is all."

"IS ALL?!" Gene yelped. "Isn't that a bad thing? Can't be good, right? RIGHT?"

"It looks purple." Will insisted.

Dean rolled his eyes. Now was not the time for anyone to panic. He wanted to, but if he did, they all would and then where would he be?

"All's good." Dean replied, allowing Will to apply and hold pressure and raise his leg and do whatever he wanted to with it. "It'll stop." he swallowed, but his throat was dry and he choked, scaring all three men who stared at him in horror. "I'm...ok!" he held a hand up. "Will….keep pressure on my leg, as hard and as tight as you can. If I bleed through the towel, add another, don't remove the old one. Fred, while we wait for the bleeding to stop….**and it will**….." he took the time to stress for the benefit of the men. "….start on my shoulder…." he accepted some water from Gene then laid down, draping his right arm across his eyes. "I'm ready."

If put under oath, Fred would have sworn hours had passed since Dean had passed out and come to and everyone had been shooed out of the church, but in reality? Well, maybe 45 minutes had ticked off the clock. He washed his hands, picked up the sharpened scissors and tweezers, adjusted the light and with a snip and a clip, began his arduous task.

"Here now, Gene, enough with the carrying on." Fred said sternly. "Get ahold of yourself and lend me a hand."

Gene gulped, fanned his face with his hand then positioned himself to hand Fred pads of gauze, pour water, dab with a dry or wet cloth, squeeze ointment, spray antiseptic wash, apply bandages and tear tape with his teeth. Dean was stoic, eyes closed and his breathing shallow throughout the ordeal of having the rope burn across his chest treated. The way the rope had draped over his neck had left a mere brush burn and required no more attention than a courtesy wash.

"How's it doing Will?" Fred asked, hesitating before taking Dean's left arm by the wrist and slowly raising it up over his head to get at his armpit. "Slowing up?"

"Yeah, bled through three folded towels, but holding good on the fourth."

"Just…..keep at it." Dean said faintly, hissing as hot water stung his raw skin. How long before he'd be able to tolerate putting on deodorant? A month? Two? Long enough Sam would bitch. "Damn….Fred….OW!" he flinched, trying his best to hold still and failing. "Sonuvabitch! Leave what skin was left!"

"Sorry, worst of it, I'm afraid. Then we'll get your back."

Yeah, Dean thought morosely, his back, his leg, then stitches…..well, he hissed and jerked, that is if he managed to live through being divested of any and all skin under his armpit. How was he supposed to ever lower his arm again? At least until he healed anyway.

"How's your stomach?" Fred asked out of the blue. "Maybe you ought to take some aspirin or ibuprofen, can't hurt, right?"

"Aah…" he stammered, trying to think. Let's see, aspirin – oh hell, no. Not with his leg gushing like a park fountain. Tylenol – no. Sam would not only kick his ass, he'd knock a tooth or two out, and Dean hated the dentist. Ibuprofen – again not good with head injuries or bleeding. "Um…..ow! Guess, Tylenol." eh, what was another crown or two? "Take it easy!"

"Sorry, sorry. Right, oh right. The bleeding and all." Fred nodded. "Okay, so, your leg next." he shook several pills from a bottle into the palm of his hand and offered them to Dean with the opened bottle of water. "Then we can turn you over and get your back."

Dean didn't want to look at or deal with his leg. It hurt. What they were doing hurt and he knew what they were doing was probably wrong, or not right, or done the wrong way but the point was to stop the bleeding. Cas would deal with any internal damage later and Sam would get him through any infection or illness. Right now, he just had to stay alive until Cas and Sam reached him.

"You okay son?" Fred paused at the chuckle. "I gotta say, you're holding up quite remarkably."

"Little tired." Dean mumbled, allowing himself to drift off to sleep or maybe it was unconsciousness – whatever – while they poked and patted and padded the gash in his leg. He barely felt the snipping and nipping only rousing when he heard the discussion about heating the needle over the flame. Great, he was going to have to oversee the stitches, lest he wind up with thread in his leg that was too loose and didn't pull the skin together; or worse, too tight. "Help me sit up." he heaved a sigh, once again using the fleece to wipe his face. "Will, you keep pressure right there. Gene, hold the light so Fred can see what he's doing. Fred, your hands clean? Okay, good….get the thread."

By Dean's guess-ta-mation, 12 stitches should do it. After the first two, Fred no longer hesitated and needed no further instruction. Dean plopped down onto his back to count with a huff of relief. Three, four, ow, five, ow, six, sonuvabitch, six, ouch, six, um…..maybe he should have let them burn him with a not-so-hot-knife, six, still hurt, seven, same as six, six…..what the hell…where was the next one? What the hell was Fred doing? Couldn't he count? Of….there, okay…..six, no….aah, to hell with it.

"Dean?" Will gave his hip a poke. "Either passed out or fell asleep."

"He's gotta be exhausted." Fred commented. "Poor fellow. Almost done here. Let's put some of that ointment on, and wrap it up. Then we'll turn him over, get his back and put him to bed."

"He's in bed." Gene pointed out.

"A dry, clean bed with soft blankets and fluffy pillows." Fred sighed. "Let him get some rest." he was exhausted. Stress and tension had wiped him out. He wanted Dean settled so he could go grab a sandwich and take a nap. "Gene, go get a couple of the boys to come turn him over so I can get his back."

His leg bandaged and wrapped, Dean was lifted and laid on his belly. He didn't stir while Fred thoroughly cleaned the rope burn on his back with hot water, and then treated it with antiseptic wash and ointment before taping gauze pads over the deepest gouges.

"Okay fellows, on his back and we're done. Thanks."


	9. Chapter 9

What can I say? This is my favorite time of year! I'd rather be outside raking leafs and decorating with mums and gourds and pumpkins than inside typing away on a computer! I'd always rather be at the lake, with grass and trees instead of sand and sun; with hawks and eagles rather than squalling, squawking seagulls; with deer and squirrels then people!

Concord grapes and McIntosh apples: apple cider and apple crisp and apple pie and apple tarts…Mmmmmmm…..Aah, Lancaster County, PA! Bred, born and raised in the hills of PA...how on earth did I end up in Baltimore?

* * *

He didn't know where he was...He didn't know who he was with...He didn't know what was wrong with him...He didn't know if it were night or day or how much time had passed...He didn't know what had happened.

He knew he didn't feel good...He knew he hurt...He knew something was wrong...e knew he wasn't home...He knew he wasn't with Sam.

So, he drifted and flitted and meandered aimlessly until something told him he needed to wake up and take control before he ended up crippled by the inept but well-meaning care he was receiving. Aah…..what? He cared, didn't he? Cared about…..about…..well, he cared, he stubbornly insisted to anyone who was listening. Not that anyone answered. That was odd, he wasn't alone, he knew he wasn't because he could hear voices. Why wasn't anyone talking to him?

He tried again, nothing. Was his tongue working? Self-check…..yes, it waggled, licked his lips, felt his teeth….eeeww, he needed a toothbrush…..he was _actually_ talking out loud wasn't he? Considering the lack of response he was getting, maybe not. Well, okay then, fine, whatever. If he could locate and label one body part that didn't in some way hurt, he'd say good enough.

And that made sense to whom?

"He's got such nice hands. Just look at them. See how long his fingers are! And his nails! How trim, almost like he's had a manicure. My goodness though, the scars! Why, just look at this one here on his arm. Tsk, tsk, must have hurt, what do you think caused that Mabel? Burn?"

"Oh, how you do go on." Mabel scolded affectionately. "And Fred still insists he washed this boy!"

"Well, with that belly, he can't exactly bend over." Millie chuckled. "All this mud in his hair."

Mabel tsked-tsked as well as Millie did. "Get that old man some new glasses! Why, we're going to have to wash him all over again."

"Right." Millie nodded emphatically. "All. Over."

Oh, not liking her tone. Not at all. Had a sinister feeling to it...like she was up to something. Had an ulterior motive.

"Such a chore." Mabel shook her head sadly, heaved a huge sigh and shared a grin with her twin. "Well, I suppose sacrifices must be made." she said sagely. "What a task!"

"It's a good thing we're up to the challenge." Millie sighed, wringing out a cloth. "What we must do…."

He was getting a manicure! He'd always wanted one….okay, ssssh, don't tell Samantha, but he'd had one or two or ten over the years. Oooh, maybe they'd give him a pedicure too. He really liked those! Not that he'd ever had an 'official' one, but there'd been that make-up artist and she'd….

"Wonder if there's a wife."

"Oh, surely there must be. Someone this handsome, but no….no ring. Course, that makes no difference these days."

"This younger generation, I swear! No truckin' with tradition."

"Someone must take care of him."

Sam did: 'Sam be nimble, Sam be quick, Sam tends Dean when he's sick', he chanted the altered nursery rhyme, over and over and over…albeit apparently only in his head because no one scolded him about it or his singing voice.

"I bet he's been a resident of the hospital on more than one occasion."

Dean nodded. Oh, yes. Yes indeed. Many times. Many, many, _many_ times. Too many times. Oh, the times…..

"Hello dear. Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

It's Dean, not dear and I can hear you just fine. No need to shout or repeat yourself and stop patting my cheek!

"Easy there, you just relax." pat, pat, pat. "Sleepy time." the voice soothed. "You just sleep."

Trying to! And you pat me one more time you're drawing back a stub, not a hand complete with fingers.

"You want his feet?" Mabel offered.

Millie perked up. "Toes?"

"Are usually attached to feet." Mabel said dryly.

"Ooh, such nice toes they are too." Millie cackled gleefully, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. "I've always…..."

"Had a foot fetish." Mabel finished. "Yes, I know."

"Admired feet." Millie sniffed. "Not the same at all."

Good God Almighty! Where the hell was he and who the bloody hell was he with?! He struggled to open his eyes, celebrated victory with a rousing hur-rah, complete with mental fist pump – and promptly admitted defeat, for crap, he hadn't retained single vision. And he knew he'd had it before. But nope, there were two – not one – two little ole gray-haired ladies.

"No." he shook his head. "No." that had been verbal. Both times. He'd stake his life out it. But he went ignored, his bed bath had begun.

And boy, were they thorough. Very, very thorough.

Awkward? Yes indeed, oh-how-very-awkward, but he had neither the strength nor the inclination to halt the advance of the wandering cloth….ehrm….cloths, for seeing double apparently meant four….four?….hands.

***000***

Sam stared. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he just stood and stared.

And as far as Rob could tell, Sam stared at nothing. So he watched; watched Sam do nothing, hovering nearby, unsure what to say or do, waiting for Sam to do something – anything. Rant, rave, scream, holler, throw rocks, kick at the ground, shake his fists in the air…..but no…..he sat down.

Sat down?

Rob opened his mouth to speak, to say something, but no words came out. He simply didn't know what to say, so he said nothing and waited. He didn't know how much time had passed while Sam sat and did nothing but it had been enough to start Rob thinking perhaps all wasn't right in Sam's head. He couldn't remain standing there, waiting on Sam. He needed to return to the camp and help Don with the boys and…oh, Sam was moving now! But...what the fuck was he doing?!

Sam had lurched to his feet and was now a whirlwind of activity. He darted to and fro frantically, hands waving, arms pin-wheeling, head whipping side to side; he stared at the sky, he stared at the ground, he stared directly ahead. He went one direction, stopped, turned, retraced his steps, and paced. He tested the mud, venturing further each time he approached the edge of the field of debris. He tossed rocks, threw sticks, climbed a tree. He ran up river, walked down river. He counted, he chanted, he talked, he argued. He approached what looked like an area flooded with only water and waded in up to his waist before Rob panicked and called for him to come back.

"Now where are you going?" Rob demanded when Sam set out at a jog back towards the mini-mart. "Sam? Hey, talk to me, you're scaring me buddy." Rob reached out, snagged the back of Sam's coat and halted him mid-step.

"The camp." Sam said distractedly, eyes darting to and fro, allowing the hold on his coat to keep him stopped.

Well finally, Rob sighed, the first sensible thing Sam had said or done since learning of the mudslide. "Good, that's good." Rob agreed. "Let's go see if Don was able to raise anyone on the CB."

"Huh?" Sam was gazing up at the sky and Rob swore he was chanting again.

"The camp wasn't affected by the mudslide nor did it flood, so we'll be safe there. You were right, though I don't know how you knew that."

"Cas told me." and Sam was off at a fast paced jog.

"Sam! Hey, slow down!" Rob demanded, trying to keep up. "We need to…." he paused. "Who's Cas? What are you talking about? He told you what?"

"If Dean would have kept his ass where I told him to stay, he'd be safe but no." Sam picked up his pace. "Dumb ass never does what he's told and I know that." he glanced up at the sky, stumbling when he was thrown off-balance. "I know better. I know _him_."

"And this Cas is who?" Rob asked again, starting to lag behind. "You aren't making any sense Sam."

"Mother Nature's a fickle bitch, but Cas wins a round against her every once in a while. He never would have led me to this Scout camp if we were in danger there."

"Uh….say what?"

"I doubt she'd do anything to him out on that mountain….and since when does Nebraska have mountains like these?" Sam threw his hands up. "Mudslides? Really?"

"Uh…..you ok Sam?"

"They play their games." Sam shook his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "And Dean and I are pawns, sometimes the prize….I dunno what all goes on where, but I'll tell ya, I'm mighty sick and tired of it."

Rob was wheezing, his side had a stitch but he kept on Sam's heels. Couldn't say why he did, but he did. Maybe it was because the poor boy thought Mother Nature was real! Real like, you know, a person. A real person who played chess with this Cas dude. Apparently Sam didn't handle stress or mental trauma well!

They reached the camp, where Sam headed straight for the camp kitchen. Poor Shin saw him come through the door and armed himself with a wooden spoon in each hand, spewing a rapid volley of his native language in warning. Sam held his hands up in a show of surrender and they stared one another down until Quan was retrieved to translate.

"You're brother left for town before the earth shook." Quan relayed. "They didn't come back."

Sam seethed. So Dean hadn't gone in response to the disaster or emergency. He'd gone because he'd been bored. Sam was going to….to….to…..well, when he was able to think right, he'd think of something to do to the stubborn, obstinate, pain in the ass! He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. First, he wanted his brother back. He'd take him back anyway he could get him. Then once he had him back and he was hale and hearty, well…...

"They're at the church." Rob said. "They have to be."

"And if Dean went to town? Went door to door?" Sam countered. "Was telling people to evacuate their house when the mudslide happened?"

"Have faith Sam, they're at the church." Rob said quietly. "Like I told you, those folks are used to floods, as soon as there's a serious threat of a flood, they retreat to the church."

Sam snorted, have faith? Yeah, right. "And you said the National Guard comes and prepares sandbags…..where are they?"

Rob followed as Sam went to the tent he shared with his brother, collected their few belongings, tossed everything in the car and climbed behind the wheel.

"Where are you going?" Rob asked, holding the door open before Sam could close it.

"Back to the river." Sam turned the engine over. "You want me to have faith? One way or another, I will get to that church."

"Are you crazy?" Don exclaimed. "Suicidal? Stay right here and wait for the rescue crews to arrive."

Where the hell had he come from? "And when will that be? Daylight?" Sam snapped, emotions and patience frazzled. "I'm not waiting that long. I'm not waiting for anyone to _'help'_ me get to my brother!"

"The county sheriff will send someone to check on the town." Don argued. "Rob said the houses are gone, destroyed by the mudslide. The electric will be off grid, the sheriff won't be able to raise anyone on the radio or reach the store by phone…"

"And what are they going to do with they get here?" Sam asked. "In the dark? No one is strolling up to that church."

"And yet you expect to?" Don scoffed. "You don't even know where it is!"

"I know the direction, I'll find it." Sam vowed. "Stay here. Trust me. This camp is safe." he shifted the transmission into reverse. "I gotta go."

"Sam, wait!" Rob resisted the tug on the door. "You can't cross that river! There's no way it's safe!"

"You don't understand." Sam yanked the door free and slammed it closed. "I have to know Dean's ok."

"And risk your own life to do it?" Rob knocked on the window, shouting to be heard through the glass. "Why? Hey, let me in!" he tried the back door and finding in unlocked, climbed in even though Sam was pulling away. "You're crazy!" the door swung shut. "You need to see reason here Sam!"

Sam didn't order him out of the car, concentrating on maneuvering the heavy car through the flooded lot. He finally bumped the tires onto the paved road and turned towards 'town'. Rob continued to babble from the backseat, he went ignored but it didn't stop him. He was still arguing with a silent Sam when Sam parked at the mini-mart, popped the trunk and rooted around, flinging and discarding items and objects as he loaded what he wanted into a backpack.

"Where can I find a boat?" he asked Rob, finally emerging from the trunk with the backpack and a duffel. He closed it with an elbow.

"What?"

"A boat. I need a boat."

"You want a what?" Rob said stupidly. No, literally, he was struck dumb.

"A boat! It floats on water, carries people….."

"I mean….for what?"

"To cross the river." his tone implied he was dealing with Rob as though he were a mentally challenged child.

"In that current?" Rob exclaimed. "There's no way!"

"A rowboat." Sam went on. "This…..this town, as you call it, is on a river, don't tell me there aren't any boats around." please-oh-please, don't let them all be at the houses.

"The river is raging!" Rob protested, his arms waved wildly. "HELLO? You can HEAR it! The mudslide pushed its current…."

"Where. Can. I. Find. A. Boat?"

Rob sighed. "You can't mean…..you don't plan…...don't you see...YOU'RE CRAZY!"

"Motorboat won't do. A canoe or a kayak?" he shouldered the backpack, and carrying the duffel, began to walk across the lot to the mini-mart. Rob stared after him and Sam was out of sight before Rob regained the ability to move. "Any boats up at the camp?" Sam asked when Rob caught up.

"No." Rob said. "We have the boys build rafts at the lake."

"Any made?"

"No."

Sam grunted and continued his search. It was now completely dark. Had it been late morning/early afternoon when he'd left the camp with Rob to bring the troop up from the river? He had one thought, one goal: reach Dean before his brother couldn't control his actions; before he gave up, lost consciousness and gave in. If the mark somehow managed to gain control….

Sam shuddered. He couldn't, wouldn't let that happen. Hold on Dean, hold on, I'm coming.

Enough time must have passed for the sheriff to have decided to investigate, because when Sam and Rob – or Sam – finally admitted defeat and returned to the parking lot of the mini-mart, it was awash in red and blue flashing lights and swarming with police officers, firemen and various men.

Aah, the cavalry – pitiful as it appeared – had arrived.

Rob was known to someone for there was soon a deep discussion that at first excluded Sam then focused solely on him as he stood at the edge of the road that led to the submerged bridges. Sam knew they approached him, knew the man wearing some kind of helmet with a rescue crew emblem on it was speaking to him, but between the flare up of wind and rain and the occasional clap of the thunder, it was impossible to hear him. And really, Sam didn't try all that hard to pay him any attention.

He had to cross that river or field of mud or whatever the hell they were calling it. Really, what choice did he have? Sure, Dean might be fine but chances were, knowing Dean, he'd gone and done something stupid – or ok, heroic – and was pretty freaking far from 'ok'.

"Sam, hey listen. This is Deputy Jefferson and he'd like a word with you." Rob said without much hope of gaining any cooperation from Sam. "Sam, come on, you gotta be reasonable."

"Sir, if I understand Rob correctly, and I hope I don't, you plan to launch a boat and attempt to cross the river?" Deputy Jefferson said. "But you haven't found one yet." he paused but Sam didn't respond. "I have to strongly discourage you from making any such attempt." he went on.

Sam was silent, could he swim?

"See sir, the river…..her current is strong and her path has been diverted by the mud. It's not safe to cross." was what was said, what Sam heard was; blah, blah, blah. "…..professionals are equipped and qualified and you're not…..." blah, blah, blah.

Could he swim with the backpack on his back? What about the duffel? Leave it behind? He couldn't do that, it was their first aid kit. Could he fit it into the backpack?

"I can't let you do this."

Now that, he heard and he wasn't about to ignore any attempt to control him or his intended actions. No one was going to keep him from getting to his brother. He dared them to try and stop him. He was up to the challenge and could use a fight to engage in to burn off some frustration.

"You. Can't. Let. Me." each word was a pointed barb. "How do you intend to stop me?" congratulations Deputy Jefferson, you now have my full attention, you asshole.

"I'll arrest you and hold you in a cell."

"You can try."

"It's too dangerous. The water, the wind, the unpredictable storm yet to arrive, the lightning, the unstable ground, not to mention, the dangers buried in that mudslide; sewer, oil, gasoline, propane. I can't, I won't, let you risk everything for one man. I'm sorry, yes, I understand he's your brother, but no, it's not worth it."

"You mean 'he'." Sam's sanity hung by a thread. "He's not worth it, that's what you're saying, isn't it?" his hands clenched, his fingers were tightly fisted, and the tension in his arms was reflected by the appearance of a throbbing vein in his neck. "Say. It."

"Sam." Rob reached for his shoulder and while Sam tolerated the touch of the unfamiliar palm on his shoulder, he by no means backed down. "Hey, come on now."

"I'm either going through it, under it or over it, but I WILL cross it!" Sam insisted steadily. "Anyone in my way who tries to stop me…"

"Sam!" Rob cut in forcefully. "Hey! Man, what's up with you?"

"Now Rob, I think your friend here wants to rip my head from my shoulders with his bare hands."

"You're _just_ a deputy and if this is supposed to be a search and rescue team…." Sam waved his hands at the disarray of swarming men converged in discord in the parking lot. "They're complaining about the lack of coffee in the mini-mart? Really? _REALLY_?"

"Or recovery." Deputy Jefferson added. "Search and rescue or recovery."

"Not helping!" Rob spoke up. "And no Sam, they're not….I mean, not officially. They're local and….."

"…..fine for the folks from around here." Sam continued like neither interruption had occurred. "But not for my brother. You don't know him, you don't understand what he could do, what could happen, what he's capable of."

"Just what are you saying?" the deputy demanded. "He some kind of psycho or something?"

"You're in my way." Sam said. "Move."

"Sam, hey now, come on." Rob tried again to obtain peace before tensions were strung any tighter. "State police will be here soon. What say we give them a chance? They'll have a chopper…."

"Ain't going up in this weather." deputy asshole smirked. "And they ain't gonna like your attitude any better than I do."

The state police did indeed arrive. Whatever I.D. Sam showed to them produced an entire different attitude, and while they agreed with Deputy Jefferson about the chopper, they were sympathetic and much more willing to help Sam, even though they advised against his plan.

"Fine, you say no chopper is flying in this weather, I get that. I do. So, tell me, where do I find a boat?"

"We can have a rowboat here in thirty minutes. But I can't authorize any of my men to accompany you." the state police officer said solemnly. "Anything goes wrong out there, I can't launch an immediate rescue for you. You're on your own." he added apologetically. "This is an unauthorized attempt, you stole the boat while my back was turned."

"I'm okay with that." Sam shook his hand. "Less weight in the boat, the better." they parted and Sam made himself scarce until a SUV pulled in, trailering a rowboat that was left unattended. "Hold on Dean, I'm coming."

***000***

He was flying: 'Up, up and away, my beautiful, my beautiful balloon!' he sang in his best Marilyn McCoo voice. "Wouldn't you like to ride in my beau-OOOOO-oooch" he screeched. "...yow-OW!" his pleasant glide on his beautiful balloon erupted in a burst of fiery agony and crashed, tumbling him back to earth amidst fire and brimstone.

"Easy there, pardner." hands held his right shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to stop him from thrashing. "You're okay, just relax Dean." his hands were caught, held, squeezed. When he tried to kick, his right leg taunted him by not moving at all and his left was easily held still by a firm grip on his ankle.

"No….no….." Dean murmured. Fueled by pain, confusion and fear, he babbled on. "No…..no burning. Been stabbed 'afore…never needed no burning."

"Okay, okay. You're hot is all. Running a slight fever. There's no fire."

"Burned by laser though." he coughed. He wished for a drink, and poof, there it was. A cup was held to his mouth and his head was supported while he sipped. "My leg."

"Yes, your leg was injured."

"Been stabbed, burned, cursed." he thumped his head about the pillow, seeking a cool spot. "Ripped apart." his eyes were open, weren't they? No matter. "Allergic…..allergy…to….apples." his voice was raspy, his words spaced but he babbled on. "No, not apples." he was silent for a bit. "Tis the seeds. And bees." he started to hum. "Big bees….huge ones."

"How's he doing?" Will asked, taking a seat on the bench next to Fred, who'd been officially elected to take care of their wounded 'leader'. "How'd you convince the ladies to give him up?"

"Bit of a fever." was the grim reply, sighed somewhat tiredly. "Told 'em he'd be wanting some warm bread when he woke up."

Dip, wring, pat. Dip, wring, pat. Dip, wring, pat.

"Guess his hair isn't wet from the rain." Will said. "No chance of a leak in the roof directly above his head?"

"Nope."

"Sweating like that…..infection?"

"Probably, too soon to really know."

"Leg?"

"Would be my guess."

"Anything we can do about it?"

"I don't know what."

"Stitches holding? Any bleeding?"

"Haven't rounded up the nerve to take a peek. Pain's him some. He's real good about lying still when he's quiet." Fred left the rag in the bowl of water and set it aside. "He's getting restless now though."

"Been a couple of hours." Will said. "He's gotta be feeling it."

"I'm sure." Fred agreed.

"So, any idea what we do next?"

"Nope." Fred stretched his back. "Been outta my league here but he's been awake to help me, you know?"

"You ever get him to take some aspirin?"

"He took some Tylenol." Fred shrugged. "Guess we keep him comfortable and wait for help to arrive."

No. Dean frowned, shaking his head. No waiting. Waiting not good. He picked himself up, stepped out of the balloon wreckage, dusted off and confronted the audience.

"Lemme see." he lifted his head from the pillow then attempted to push up from the mattress with one hand. He cleared his shoulders before giving up and deflating with a puff and a moan. "Ooooooooo." he groaned pitifully.

"Hey there, you with us?" Fred asked, laying a hand on Dean's good shoulder. "Just stay still. Tell me what you need."

I need to see how good of a job you did. I need to see if the stitches are tight enough to hold should I thrash around or if they'll pop. Need to see if I've bleed through. Need to see if there's any swelling. See if it's too soon to determine if there's an infection. I just need to see!

"Help me…sit up." he ordered. Doing so on his own wasn't going to happen and he doubted he'd be able to remain sitting without support but he couldn't see his leg laying down, so up he had to go!

"Are you sure? It's only been a couple of hours and…" Fred moved to slide an arm behind Dean's lower back and helped him sit up. "Okay, no…guess you're sure. Now what…..you're leg? Oh, you want to see it? Okay…Will, move the towel." he could feel Dean shaking and tightened his one-arm hold. "There now, you just take it easy. Don't go over-doing it. I've got ya."

The change in elevation made him dizzier than he thought simply sitting up could ever make him. His vision was so out-of-whack, he swore he was viewing the room through a motel room door peep-hole. Oye…and no amount of blinking or wishing made him see any clearer either. He attempted to bend forward but his stomach clenched, heaving his chest into this throat so he stopped. A follow-up attempt to move his leg failed as well. Okay Dean, take a moment and regroup; ignore your arm and your shoulder and your back and your head and your blurry vision and think about your leg. Yes, your leg, for it's the most important problem at the moment.

Fine. Think about his leg? Okay. His Leg Fucking Hurt! There! How was that for thought? And it was hot – _he was hot_ – it throbbed and pulsed and pulsated with each and every beat of his heart, which if he thought about it, seemed to be beating faster than it should. He felt it thump-a-thump thump against his chest. From what? Pain? Fear? Apprehension? The need to gear up for a fight? For he needed to avoid, prevent infection. He needed to keep control, couldn't let pain or illness take away his ability to fight for control. As long as he could fight, he'd be all right, otherwise…...he shuddered, letting the mark gain control and take over didn't bear thinking.

Hurry the fuck up Sammy. I'm trying, Lord, I'm trying but I need Betadine and Tramadol and someone who knows what the fuck they're doing. Yeah, yeah, I know. This situation I'm in? My fault, all my fault, but kick my ass later, right now, I need you to come take care of me.

"Keep 'em dry and clean. Can use soap. Pat dry. Let the air to 'em." Dean sagged against Fred's arm. "If they look red or swollen or ooze, apply hot compresses." Fred guided him down and let him go. He flopped for a bit, then settled. "I'll try not to itch."

"What?" Will asked. "What are you talking about? Fred? Do you know what he's talking about?"

"His stitches Will. He's talking about his stitches. Dean, think you can manage some tomato soup?" Fred asked. "You should eat something and it's low-salt, easy to swallow, nice and hot, warm you up."

"What does he mean by hot compresses?" Will asked. "Why would they itch?"

"So's chocolate pudding." Dean murmured. "Can make it with milk, you know." he let his eyes close. "Maybe…some water, is all."

"Okay, got some right here, just relax, let me hold your head." Fred said. "Don't strain...good, that's good. You just rest, get some sleep and don't worry about nothing. If we need you, we'll wake you up. Okay?"

Sure, sure. You do that. You wake me up to you know, evacuate a town, fill sandbags, build a wall, chase a dog, rescue a kid, drown, be buried in mud…..yeah, on second thought, let me sleep.

And he did. He sank back into blessed oblivion but his mind refused to fall idle. It kicked into over-drive and ran amuck. He dreamed, he envisioned, and he did what he did the last time he was injured and alone, awash in pain and infection. He compiled a song while having a mark-fueled nightmare.

The secret side of me I never let you see  
I keep it caged, but I can't control it  
So stay away from me, the beast is ugly  
I feel the rage and I just can't hold it

It's scratching on the walls, in the closet, in the halls  
It comes awake, and I can't control it  
Hiding under the bed, in my body, in my head  
Why won't somebody come and save me from this, make it end.

I feel it deep within, it's just beneath the skin  
I must confess that I feel like a monster  
I hate what I've become, the nightmare's just begun  
I must confess that I feel like a monster

I, I feel like a monster.

My secret side I keep hid under lock and key  
I keep it caged, but I can't control it  
'Cause if I let him out he'll tear me up, break me down  
Why won't somebody come and save me from this, make it end.

I, I feel like a monster

It's hiding in the dark, it's teeth are razor sharp  
There's no escape for me, it wants my soul, it wants my heart  
No one can hear me scream, maybe it's just a dream  
Maybe it's inside of me, stop this monster

I, I feel like a monster**

He was changing and he knew it. Sam knew it. Dean knew Sam knew. He knew Sam knew he knew. What he didn't know was what to do about it. Not yet anyway, but soon.

***000***

Sam stowed his backpack and duffel in the boat and launched it. No one tried to stop him, no one tried to join him. Just as well, he didn't need or want the responsibility of anyone else. He rowed easily until the current caught the boat, then braced his feet, squared his shoulders and put his back into it.

"Okay Cas, I know you're on your way buddy, but help _me_ get to him now." he waited, holding the boat steady. "Which way?" the boat bucked and dipped, riding the current, then bobbed on a wave, nudging him to his right. "Hold on Dean, I'm coming." and with a grunt and a heave-ho, Sam dipped the oars and hauled ass.

* * *

** "Monster" is on the album Awake, by Skillet. It was written by Cooper, John / Brown, Gavin. **

.


End file.
